Clouds That Thunder
by SeriousSubwayFlirting
Summary: The storm has been raging for years. Only in its crescendo do Meetra Surik and Atton Rand finally collide. Between fighting Sith Lords, their own demons, and each other, neither are searching for love but will find it in spite of themselves. An interpretive retelling of Knights of the Old Republic II.
1. Bang!

_Beautiful summary written by the wonderful Girl-Chama. All love and thanks and respect for her efforts, and for all of her lovely words of encouragement and support, too, of course._

* * *

**Exordium**

Sometimes our way is clean, sometimes foul  
Sometimes up hill, sometimes down  
We are seldom so blessed as to find certainty  
While the wind is not always pressed against us  
Neither is every man we meet with on the way a friend  
But we follow the Force, and allow not its darkness to consume us  
But its light to guide us  
When you grow tired, Hesperus, know that every man suffers  
But heroes always stand again

* * *

**Chapter One**

**_Fools look to tomorrow; wise men use tonight._**

It started with a bang.

More specifically, it started with Atton slamming the heavy glass bottom of a whiskey bottle on the dash. For the last hour and a half, Meetra had crossed the floor of the cockpit behind him, heavy boots stamping methodically, oozing frustration. It was late now, almost midnight, and a long day of being left to languish in the cockpit had Atton feeling tired and ready to call it a night. So Meetra presented a problem, because Atton didn't have quarters. Each night, he slept in the pilot's chair, feet propped up on the dash, chin resting on his chest. Not the most comfortable of arrangements, truth be told. It made his neck hurt like a schutta, but he'd slept in more incommodious places. When the bottle came down, the sudden sound startled Meetra. There was a visible jump, a brief flash of her eyelids and a hand on her chest. Atton grinned.

"Drink."

"What?" she asked, looking at him in confusion.

"Drink this until Nar Shaddaa rules starts looking like a legitimately good idea or you pass out so I can go to sleep," he said, giving the bottle another, gentler tap on the dash.

Meetra frowned, placing her hands on her hips. They stared at one another.

"I'm annoying you, aren't I?" she asked, giving him an apologetic half smile.

"You're killing me," he replied, solemnly.

She nodded and walked out the door without a moment's hesitation. The second the last whip of her hair disappeared, he wanted her to come back and he had no choice but to brandish a metaphorical finger at himself for caring. Because he didn't. Or didn't want to, at least.

"Meetra!" he called out, then internally cringed.

The door slid open again and there Meetra stood, arms folded, scrutiny in her eyes.

"Bedtime soporific, then?" he said, giving a knavish grin and swilling the bottle.

Meetra looked unimpressed, and so Atton took a slug, then pointed at her.

"Tell me what your problem is before you wear a hole in the hull and get all our heads exploded next time we're in a vacuum," he said after a hard swallow. He gestured in a way he intended to be encouraging.

After another moment of severe staring, Meetra let her shoulders go slack. "Heads don't explode in a vacuum."

"Just talk, Surik," he said, rolling his eyes.

"Ever since we got here, all I've done is waste time piecing together some crusty old speeder -"

"What's your problem with speeders anyway?" interrupted Atton, referring to her utter refusal to use the thing, even after both he and Bao-Dur had confirmed once, twice and then thrice that it was perfectly safe.

"And," continued Meetra, choosing to ignore Atton's question, "Lose twenty-four consecutive games of pazaak against a talking bat."

"What did you expect? You're rubbish, Surik. I told you to let me play for you," asserted Atton with an eye roll, taking another swig.

"In my defence, I thought you were just an exceptionally good player," she said, making a sulky expression that was close to a pout.

"While that's true, you're also exceptionally _bad_, Surik," he said, inhaling through his teeth as if he expected her to throw up her hands and send him flying through the windshield.

"Kiss my ass, Rand," hissed Meetra, tossing Atton a withering look.

"After enough of this, I might just do that," cooed Atton, downing another gulp. He adopted a specific grin, one he had noticed over the last few weeks had the power to make Meetra instinctively move her shoulders in a way that pushed out her breasts. She did just that, and seemed to immediately become aware of it, because she folded her arms again and leant her shoulder against the wall.

"Why don't you just sleep in a bed like a normal person, Atton?"

Atton scoffed. Why, indeed. In Atton's opinion, the cockpit was the _only _option. There was one individual room aboard the _Ebon Hawk_, and that was the Captain's Quarters. Meetra had claimed that coveted room the very second they'd stepped aboard and prying it from her iron clutches any time soon seemed unlikely because she was a stubborn little thing who would probably box the ears blue of any man or woman that tried. He'd considered on occasion, late at night when he was lonely and a little warm with whiskey, just crawling in there with her and hoping for the best but imagined that would yield similar results.

That left the dorms. Kreia occupied one side so that was out because she made Atton's skin crawl. Bao-Dur and Mical took the other. Now, the Zabrak was alright, but Atton had an uncomfortable feeling that sleeping in a dorm with Blondie would eventually turn into bedtime fluffy feeling confession time. Atton understood where Mical was coming from, even if he didn't like the whiny little mynock encroaching on what he felt was his territory. But all the same, he was not much interested in hearing some kid barely out of puberty prattle on about how the Exile was such a delicate flower of a woman. He'd rather lick a Hutt's backside than hear Mical's virginal, candy-coated fantasies that blindly neglected the more unattractive aspects of Meetra's personality and past.

If avoiding that nest of awkward wasn't enough enticement to stay in the cockpit, there was the added benefit of being ready at the helm if something went wrong. And something going wrong seemed inevitable, seeing as chaos seemed to obsessively follow Meetra. Atton wasn't about to take the blame if they unknowingly drifted into pirate territory in the middle of the night and got blown to pieces. Someone like him would be damned to all the hells there ever were and he could just imagine it now – he'd be stuck in that damn Force cage again while Kreia droned on and on for all eternity about how it was all his fault – all the crew dead and a massive dent on the _Ebon Hawk_'s fender. _Fool_. No thanks. Sleeping in the cockpit suited Atton just fine.

"Do Hutts have asses, or...I mean, I know one end is the head, but what do you call the other?" pondered Atton, seemingly oblivious to having sat there in silence for a good minute or two while Meetra awaited a reply.

"Oh, Force. Give me that." Meetra scowled, crossing the room and snatching the bottle, then sinking down in the co-pilot's seat. She took a hard swig and an incredibly sour look passed her pretty face.

"I didn't know Jedi were allowed to drink," said Atton, casually, smirking at her distaste.

"_Not _a Jedi. Also, holy Hutta, what is this sithspit?" she hissed, poking out her tongue in disgust.

"Hey, that's fine Corellian whiskey, princess," defended Atton, reaching over to take the bottle and snorting with laughter when Meetra wriggled away, taking another drink and shaking her head with enthusiasm.

"No. This is...I don't know what this is, but there's nothing fine about it."

"If it's so bad, give it back," howled Atton, reaching over again and getting a playful slap.

"No, no. I think this is mine, now," murmured Meetra, closing her eyes.

A whisper of a memory cooed in her ear. Revan sneaking her into a cantina down in Khoonda on her sixteenth birthday. She remembered stumbling down the street after closing, a handful of Revan's shirt to stay upright, the two screaming and laughing and singing a song with particularly saucy lyrics that was popular on Coruscant at the time. Behind them was Alek, rolling his eyes so much he was in danger of straining an ocular nerve. She remembered him saying to Revan they should get her home, so she turned around and made a gesture with her fingers and her tongue that made him blush, and after that he was quiet. Then, she remembered being called into Vrook Lamar's office the next day, to find him standing there with Ahlan Matale who had a villainous glee in his eye. He had spotted them, and she spent the next month of afternoons shucking corn with the kitchen staff as penance.

Back on Nar Shaddaa, sitting in the cockpit next to Atton, Meetra's face turned sour and Atton raised an eyebrow.

"What's your problem?"

"I don't know what I'm doing," she admitted, rolling her eyes at herself. "I'm just not getting anywhere."

Atton pondered this for a moment, then took the bottle back and pointed it at her.

"Let's go out."

"What?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"You. Me. Out there. Not here," he said, gesturing at the window.

"Yeah, yeah, I get it. How's this supposed to help, again?"

"Well. I don't know. But it's got to better than pacing around here, spacing out, or sitting around cross-legged with your little blonde whelp doing...whatever it is you do."

"It's meditation, Atton."

"Whatever. Drinking is how I meditate."

"Well, that's just..." Meetra shook her head, then shrugged.

"Too much fun for an uptight Jedi like yourself?"

"I am _not _a Jedi," she whined, sick of Atton constantly mentioning it.

Atton scoffed at her. Meetra rubbed her forehead, and her shoulders sagged, weighed down by her burden.

"Seriously, you listened to those hammerheads on Telos for hours on end and never once thought 'Frag, I could really use a drink right now?'"

"The _Ithorians_, Atton," said Meetra, letting her eyes grow wide for emphasis, "Were charming."

"And I suppose you like being coughed all over by diseased people over in the Refugee Sector, too?"

She gave an affirmative hum, narrowing her eyes.

"And that bald prick of a Jedi on Dantooine didn't bother you at all?" pushed Atton, resting an ankle on his knee.

Meetra's face grew grim at the second reminder of Vrook and the top corner of her lip twitched. She grabbed the bottle back from Atton and took another long drink, this time only pursing her lips mildly. She stared out the window at the smoggy purple skyline of Nar Shaddaa, dotted with millions of lights in every colour. Finally, she turned to Atton.

"Alright," she conceded. "Let's go out."

"Astral," said Atton, standing, but Meetra shook her head.

"Not yet. I can't go like this," she said, gesturing at her clothes.

Atton stared, unimpressed. "You go everywhere like that."

Meetra stammered, then rose to her feet and took a few steps backwards towards the door. "Let me change. I won't take long. I promise."

"If you do, I'll leave without you," he threatened, but his face was kind and he smiled at her.

"Yes, master," she said, bowing briefly, her face bright with cheek, before heading out the door and down the hall, a trace of vim finally in her step.


	2. Tricks and teasing

**Chapter Two**

_**The fool wanders, a wise man travels.**_

Atton's back was settled against the _Ebon Hawk _as casually smoked a cigarette. He checked the time, and rolled his eyes. It had been almost forty minutes since she'd flounced out of the cockpit to 'change,' and Atton was growing impatient. He'd told her he would leave without her if she wasn't quick, but it was an empty threat because at the moment it was really only her company he was interested in. Around him, Nar Shaddaa buzzed, so loud that it was hard to think. Where others might be annoyed by that, Atton found it soothing. He inhaled, and smiled. The second they stepped off the _Ebon Hawk_, he had remarked on that peculiar smell. It wasn't pleasant, but it was home, or the closest thing Atton had to a home. He crossed one ankle over the other, and checked the time again. That made forty-two minutes. He reached behind to stub his cigarette out against the _Hawk_'s hull, then tossed the butt over the edge and into the void.

He wriggled his shoulders. His jacket did not fit as well as one might like, and was tight across his upper back, but in a strange way he preferred it like that. He supposed it was like Nar Shaddaa in that way – comforting in its discomfort. He decided, then, that he'd waited long enough and made moves towards the cargo ramp, intending on bursting into Meetra's room and dragging her out, if he had to. Before he got there, though, the ramp dropped and there was Meetra.

He stopped and his jaw went a little slack. He looked her up and down. She had, indeed, changed, into something considerably more stylish than she normally wore. Her face was made up, and her hair was set in a style more intricate than her usual messy ponytail. Atton closed his mouth; it fell open again. Meetra smiled the rosy-lipped, crooked-toothed smile that made something thump in Atton's chest. When Atton had suggested they go out, his intention had been to have a few drinks and maybe help Meetra relax in the only way he knew how. Though he was interested in her, he hadn't bothered to entertain the notion that the night might amount to anything. He looked her up and down again, and as he caught a flash of bare leg through the slit in her skirt, he had to admit, just to himself, that he'd imagined many times what it would be like tossing those legs over his shoulders. She looked confident and serene, but he allowed himself to assess her more closely. Her chest was puffed out, her chin raised a little too much, her eyes bore into him. He realised that she wanted a compliment, that she was trying to impress him, and he ventured to wonder if maybe, tonight, he had a chance with her. Atton gave her a crooked grin, then wolf-whistled.

Meetra rolled her eyes and slapped the back of her hand against his stomach. "Keep that up, and I'm staying in," she said, but she was clearly trying very hard not to smile.

"I'm just teasing," he said, letting his own grin grow. He reached into his jacket and pulled out his slick cigarette case, taking one and lighting it with cupped hands to counteract the breeze. "Let's go."

Meetra gave a nod of agreement, and the two began to walk, side by side. After a moment, Atton slipped his hand inside his jacket and pulled out his flask. He threw it back, taking a good gulp, then offered it to Meetra. She raised a cautious eyebrow at Atton, then took it and did the same. Meetra looked around and spent a moment soaking in the sights of Nar Shaddaa. She was fond of cities, though Nar Shaddaa was a little aerial for her tastes. As Atton put it, a bad step and one could fall for days, and that did not sound the least bit appealing to Meetra. Her feet slowed as her attention was taken by a pair of men arguing on the street, and Atton placed a hand on her back to push her along.

"You can help the needy masses later, Surik. We have places to be," he said, leaning down close to her ear.

Meetra let her chin dip, pleased that he was touching her. "So we're going somewhere specific? I thought you were just winging it."

"No, I have somewhere in mind," said Atton, casually holding his palm up as they passed a beggar asking for credits.

Meetra turned her head back, tempted to stop and spill her purse, but Atton's hand was tight and commanding on her back and he didn't stop walking so neither did she.

"Fancy elaborating?" she said, casually, trying to push the man's desperate face from her mind.

"The Whistling Wingle."

"That sounds...Avian?" said Meetra, raising her eyebrow.

Atton laughed. "Decent joint, I give you my word. Does lots of frilly cocktails, too, which sound about your speed, Surik."

"Excuse me?" she asked. She narrowed her eyes and slipped from Atton's grip, turning to face him and continuing to walk backwards.

"I'm expecting you to be under the table before the hour's out," admitted Atton, smirking at her. "Probably gonna have to throw you over my shoulder and carry you home."

"Are you trying to say I can't handle my liquor, Rand?"

"I'm assuming that, yes."

Meetra gave a disgusted howl and turned back around to walk by Atton's side. "We'll see."

They walked together through the Refugee Sector and out onto the Promenade. The lights here were brighter and more colourful, and they arrived at their destination just as Atton's flask ran dry. When they entered, the bar was packed, more so than Atton could ever remember it being. Atton returned his hand to Meetra's back so he didn't lose her, but he was beginning to feel a little buzzed and let it slip a bit lower than before. He pulled her through the brumous confluence, fighting to get to the bar. He finally managed to carve out a small space at the counter, and he rested his forearms on it and leant forward on his toes, looking for the bartender. He looked at Meetra, and watched her for a moment. She was looking around, with a small frown on her face.

"What do you want?" he asked, leaning down.

"Anything," she said. "Pick for me, I see an empty booth."

Before Atton could reply, Meetra was gone, her small frame making it a lot easier for her to quickly slip past people.

He turned back and drummed his fingers on the polished steel. He scanned the length of the bar, wondering how long he would need to wait. He was just about to call out to the bartender, when a particularly shapely Togruta with lovely soft white and purple facial markings sidled up beside him. Atton, being Atton, couldn't help his eyes wandering down and staring at her cleavage for a beat. She noticed immediately and he expected her to admonish him but she gave him a sly smile, full of pearly, pointy teeth.

"Hi," she said, giving him a once over. "I'm Shaandra."

Atton checked her out and, deciding that he liked her face, returned the same sly smile. "Atton."

"I don't know why I come here. I swear, always have to wait for half an hour just to get a drink," she said, ending her sentence with a flirtatious laugh.

"Tell me about it," said Atton, raising his voice to be heard over the crowd. "Half the time you..." He trailed off. "I need to go. Nice meeting you," he said, and gave her a casual nod of his head. He turned away from the bar, determined to make his way back to Meetra. Another woman wasn't a problem, really. If, for some reason, Meetra had been a man, Atton would have dragged the Togruta over to their table and paid her every last spot of his attention. And he theorised that he could do the same now, and in some ways he wanted to, because months had passed since he'd last been with a woman and he was growing increasingly restless. But Meetra was different tonight. She seemed interested in him, and Atton wanted her, and he wasn't about to do anything to jeopardise his chances, even if it meant passing up what was probably a sure thing. When he found Meetra again, she was sitting at a small dirty booth in the back, casually tearing a disposable coaster to pieces. He slid into the booth opposite her and she gave him a pointed look.

"What?"

"Drinks?" she said, widening her eyes.

"Oh," said Atton. "I, er, forgot."

"Are you trying to tell me, Atton," she said, sweeping the tiny pieces of torn coaster into a pile with her nails, "That you intended to just sit here simpering all night? Because you could have just done that in the cockpit."

"Hey! Listen, Surik," he started, smiling at her, "I do not simper. I brood, thank you -"

"What, like a si-hen?" she interrupted, her face jovial, pleased with herself.

He spoke loudly over her, clearly annoyed her at quip. "Secondly, Meetra, I'm not simpering. Or brooding. I'm just taking a moment to...appreciate." He gestured at her chest, and grinned.

Meetra sat up a little and reached across the table to ruffle Atton's hair. He pushed her off with a grin.

"Lastly," he continued, "I'm a firm believer in gender equality, and I wouldn't want to go around splashing my credits, treating you like some sort of kept woman. You get the drinks."

Atton beamed, almost sarcastic but very jolly. They stared at each other, challenge in their eyes.

"You will buy me a drink," Meetra said, her voice serene and calm and Atton felt the Force plinking away at his mental fortress made of durasteel and pazaak cards.

"I will...not buy you a drink. That doesn't work on me, sweetheart."

His face slowly morphed from blank to impish.

"You must be more intelligent than I thought," she cooed sarcastically, careful not to directly hit the soft spot that was his ego.

"Don't feel too disappointed. Maybe you're just not very good at it," he barked back, laughter rolling from his mouth suddenly.

"I am very good at it, thank you," she exerted defensively, as the impregnable calm of her face cracked to let hot, annoyed blush flow across her cheeks.

"Prove it. Get to me."

He motioned at himself, trying to antagonise her further, and in his mind, starting choose his side deck, expecting her to try again to Force a drink from him. Instead, she silently stood and sauntered towards the bar, approaching a Zabrak who could have been considered handsome, maybe.

_I__f a face like a kath hound collar's your thing,_ thought Atton. He watched, envy growing deeply as she made small talk with the stranger, and touched his chest, allowing his hand to grace her thigh. Atton steeled himself and only narrowly resisted the urge to march over and claim his territory, as chauvinistically and loudly as possible. She flicked her hand, mouthing words Atton couldn't make out across the room and suddenly her new gentleman friend was turning back towards the bar, gesturing at the bar tender. The publican reached for something top-shelf and deep blue, more expensive than he could ever afford. She held her hand out to say no ice, and two glasses were generously filled. The Zabrak parted with his credits in a stupor, and she returned to Atton, a drink in each hand, looking smug.

"Never let it be said, Atton, that Meetra Surik shells out her own hard-earned credits for a drink, when there are dapper men around willingly to do so for her. And for the record," she said, leaning down, with her face close to Atton's ear and her breasts pressed against his shoulder. Her words honeyed and seductive as she continued. "I always know how to get to you._ Pure pazaak_."

Atton felt a heady rush from Meetra's own soft scent and what smelt like horrok lilies. His concentration wavered for moment.

"Oh my, what would the devoted little mynock in the med bay say about you, you know..." He mimicked her hand gesture.

"He wouldn't say anything, because I would never. That was all just my natural charm."

The lie crossed her lips effortlessly in dulcet tones, and mischief glimmered in her pale blue eyes. Atton felt allure wash over him anew. He imagined Mical's dismay at Meetra using the Force to scam a drink of all things and felt smug that he'd found one thing Mical didn't share in common with her, finally. Deliberately choosing not to scold him for insulting Mical and her acknowledgement of his attraction to her didn't go astray either. He felt the odds tip in his favour and decided that fool or not, he definitely stood a chance.


	3. Human

**Chapter Three**

_**Love is the wisdom of the fool and the folly of the wise. **_

Meetra Surik and Atton Rand were drunk. What had started as a gentle testing of the Vertical City's waters, had turned into three hours of loud and excited conversation, shots, cocktails, tumbler after tumbler of whiskey and now pazaak.

Over the course of the night, each time he had returned from the bar, he had positioned himself closer to Meetra in the dirty booth, and she had done the same. Both found excuses to touch each other as they spoke. The drunken hush fogging their intellects made them think they were being subtle but the electricity between them was almost audible.

At some point she had requested they dance and Atton had refused, but felt inexplicably compelled to follow her to the floor when she had declared she would simply dance alone. What followed almost broke him – she was hardly a scratch on the professional Twi'leks dancing up on the cantina's podiums but Atton already knew well that a pretty girl, that one is attracted to, is the most seductive dancer in the world. His pride slid to the bottom of his priority list and he danced with her, heat building up inside him and making his clothes feel tight and uncomfortable. By the end of the song he had his mouth pressed against her cheek and his hands holding her waist. He wanted to kiss her but he choked, fearful of her rejection, so he simply let go and walked to the bar without a word as she stared after him, disappointed.

The night carried on as it had before – conversation and compotation until they had exhausted Atton's small reserve of credits and, not wanting the night to end just yet, he had dragged her to a pazaak den to win enough to carry on.

It was hard for Atton not to show off as he played the over-confident stoopas who tried to best him. His array of skills was smaller than the others they travelled with and tended not to be useful nearly as often. His plan seemed a success, though; soon he had amassed more credits than his pockets had held when he left the _Ebon Hawk_ earlier that night and Meetra, to his great pleasure, hadn't looked away from him in more than twenty minutes. He saw rapture on her face, and had he dared himself to entertain the notion, lust.

He had made a deliberate bad move to deceive the Rodian he was playing against, then as his opponent chose to stand at 19, Atton laid a +/-4, restoring his fortune and landing on a flat 20. The Rodian, whose name Atton hadn't caught, scowled and threw down the remains of his sidedeck in anger before taking his deck and storming from the table. Atton admired the pile of coins, notes and chips he'd acquired, then withdraw a slender silver cylinder from his pocket. He flicked open the latch on one end and withdrew a cigarette, lighting it with a click from the opposite end of the case. A long drag and a satisfied smile later, he turned back to Meetra who was still watching him intently.

"We have enough to get us first class to Nal Hutta and back. Do you want to go somewhere more lively?"

She continued to stare softly, seemingly fascinated with his face. She reached across into his jacket, and, making sure to linger over his chest just a little, withdrew the cigarette case, gently opening it and lighting her own. Atton watched incredulously.

"Since when do you smoke? You lectured me when I was smoking in the refresher last week! I call foul."

She smoked more elegantly than most women. Her style was slow and deliberate and made her cheekbones sharp as she inhaled. She edged closer to him and remained silent to enjoy his confusion.

"I'll have to mention that to Blondie next time he harks on about knowing you better than I do," he said, now blatantly trying to goad her into replying. She lightly tapped the cigarette with her index finger and ash drifted delicately down to the filthy floor.

"Atton," she spoke, finally "Can I ask you something?"

"As long as it doesn't concern my past or what I do in the cockpit when you're out all day," he grinned. He could tell by her expression and tone that she had come to that stage of a night out where one's mind treads to the dark voids ordinarily sealed shut by common sense and self-preservation. Atton did _not_ want to follow.

"It's neither."

"Well then. Go ahead."

"I know you don't like Jedi, and I don't need to know why," she started then uncertainty filtered over her face like she hadn't said what she had intended. The words stuck in her throat, refusing to organise. "But.. what I am. I mean, what I'm trying to do. What do you think of me? You don't like Jedi, and that's what I am, and...is that all I am? You seem shocked every time I do something that isn't stereotypical, Light-side preaching, saber-wielding, self-sacrificing Jedi."

"To be fair, that is generally how you act."

"I'm serious, Atton. Like this?" she waved the hand that held the cigarette, "Why is it so implausible? I'm still...human. I still want and need what everyone else does, even if their code insists I don't. Is that fundamentally wrong? Am I doing the wrong thing, here? I've been wrong before and didn't know it."

Atton couldn't answer her. They were both inebriated, and her words and her meaning weren't as clear as they usually were. He suspected she wasn't still talking about his reaction to the cigarette, but lacked the tact to navigate such a charged conversation. Was she lamenting her turmoil over being attracted to him or was that just what he wanted? The silence expanded to fill every inch between them and for the first time all evening, she seemed many miles away.

"Let's get some air," he finally stated, decision in his voice and actions as he stood. She nodded slowly, still deep in thought and Atton gathered his winnings into his wallet, stashing what didn't fit in the inner breast pocket of his jacket. They headed for the exit and he wanted to put his arm around her. He thought over what she had said. The meaning was still obscured by her muddled wording, but his instincts told him this was the answer she needed, so he slid his arm around her waist and pressed his lips against her hair in a short, soft kiss. In silence, they continued through the winding streets of Nar Shaddaa, and in an empty laneway, stopped so she could put out her spent cigarette.

"I don't really want to go anywhere else. But I don't feel like going back either. As soon as I do, I have to start thinking about everything again and I'm just not ready," she said, looking at Atton with desperation in her eyes. She wanted him to tell her what to do. She wanted to be led and not lead for once and he could tell. It happened then, as he stepped forward to close the gap between them. Who kissed first they could not be sure, but suddenly he had her pressed against the crumbling stresscrete wall.

He moved a hand to her breast and squeezed it roughly. It was fuller than expected and it sent a rush of lust from his belly to his groin that burned like the hot sands of Tatooine. She bit his lip gently in surprise as his hands snaked quickly down, through the slit in her skirt to grab her backside and hoist her off the ground until he didn't have to stoop to kiss her. In a smooth motion, he tucked her legs around his waist and held her in place by pressing her tight between the wall and his pelvis, before returning one hand to her breast, and the other beneath her.

The truth was – if she'd been any other woman – he wouldn't have had the slightest objection to turning her around and taking her right there in the alley. Any other woman and he'd bite down on her shoulder until he tasted blood, and if she squealed he'd just push her harder until her chest was so constricted she couldn't make a sound. That chest, fuller than expected, if it belonged to any other woman, would be sore and bruised when he was satiated and finished with her.

But something was wrong. She was kissing too fast, as one of her hands gingerly pawed at his chest and the other clutched the lapel of his jacket. The probing tendrils of her Force tip-tapped against his mind frantically and he knew she was trying to determine if he actually cared about her. A brief flash of worry that she didn't want this crossed his mind, and then he realised she was nervous. Not the excited sort of nervous, but the inexperienced sort of nervous. This was new to her. Despite knowing how she'd been raised, it never seriously crossed him mind that she might be a virgin. She was younger than him but not by much. Any other woman, and the thought would have filled him with second-hand embarrassment, cruel amusement or maybe even revulsion but she wasn't any other woman, she was this woman. Meetra.

Meetra who introduced herself by saving him in her underwear.

Meetra who was decisive and fearless against those that had more muscle than she had mass, who towered over her tiny frame.

Meetra who worked herself to exhaustion for others every day, and always turned down reward when offered.

Meetra who never tolerated anyone calling him a fool, even though he really, really was.

Meetra who had never seemed scared of anything except for him.

He didn't want this moment for her to be Atton Rand with dirty hands in a dirty alley on dirty Nar Shaddaa. He wanted it to be all Lashaa silk, everylily petals, candles, someone better than him. Well, with him, but he could at least shower first. Regardless, whatever this was, he knew it wasn't good enough. Carefully, he lowered her back down to her feet and moved his hands to cup her soft, flushed face. He kissed her harder for a moment, trying to convey how much he didn't want to pull away.

"This isn't the right place," he said quietly, as she gasped. She had obviously forgotten to breathe, and it sealed his theory for him – _rookie mistake_.

"Okay," she vocalised weakly, pushing from her face one of the fraying braids of hair that had dislodged from its proper place during their brief clinch. He held her face, amused by how heated her cheeks were.

"We could go back to the _Hawk_...or...I know this place..." he continued, hoping she'd take the latter option because he didn't need a gaggle of Force-sensitives bearing down on him during this, and their ship, reliable as it was, had a distinct lack of double bunks. Taking someone's virginity in a single bed was a little too..._sixteen_, even for Atton.

"Place? What kind of place?"

"Nice place. Hotel – good kind of seedy. Hutt who runs it owes me a favour."

Meetra stared at him for a long time, expressionless. It was a look she used on people she was trying to intimidate_. _He hated when she used it on him but he didn't dare break her gaze. Finally, her face split into a warm smile and she nodded, acknowledging the small commitment she was making and giving Atton permission to proceed.

"Let's." she spoke softly, slipping her fingers through his and as they ventured on into the night, he understood she was giving him more than her hand.


	4. Feel my Force

**Chapter Four**

**_Oh, innocent victims of Cupid, remember this terse little verse:_**

**_To let a fool kiss you is stupid. To let a kiss fool you is worse_**

Atton Rand had decided that he was officially the luckiest son of a schutta on all of Nar Shaddaa. He had a pocket full of credits, a flask of whiskey in one hand and in the other, the prettiest girl he'd ever seen. He led Meetra protectively through the winding back streets and crowds of the city, intent on taking her to a hotel in the Red Light District where he'd bedded another woman with fiery, red hair some years previous. Her name and the details of her face had faded from his memory over time but what he did remember was that the rooms were clean, the sheets were soft and the scent of Nlora flowers hung in the air, and just maybe that would be good enough.

They passed a convenience store, and Atton remembered something more important than sheets and perfumes. He stopped Meetra and turning towards her, his hands in hers, he kissed her long and slow.

"Wait here a minute. I'm just gonna duck in there for a minute. I feel like a cigar to celebrate," he lied, quietly.

"Why do I have to wait here?" Meetra frowned.

"I'll be right back," he replied, ignoring her question, already walking backwards towards the store. He pointed to her, "Don't go anywhere! I'm watching!"

Meetra smiled and rolled her eyes.

Atton headed into the small store. It was cramped and smelt of disgusting, dried gumfish and the young man standing at the counter looked as miserable as Atton was happy. The store's abundant catalogue of stock made it difficult for Atton to quickly find what he needed. He glanced out the window and saw Meetra standing there, waiting patiently where he had left her. Finally he located what he was after. He was disappointed to find his preferred brand not among the selection and started evaluating what was on offer for a suitable substitution.

He was glad Meetra hadn't come in because all the Juma had him feeling giddy and he knew if she was present, he'd be gloating about finally getting to do it Jedi-style _with_ a Jedi and asking if he should get the green ones so his lightsaber matched hers. As hilarious as he found himself at the moment, he was pretty sure all his stunning wit would garner from Meetra was a slap.

He narrowed his selection down to two – something practical, and something to make Meetra blush. He looked again out the window to check she was still there. It surprised him to see her speaking with two Twi'leks, but he thought nothing of it. Atton proceeded to the counter, and felt awkward as the clerk rang up his purchase, so he impulsively added a packet of gum from the counter display that did nothing to abate his embarrassment. As he counted out his credits, he looked at Meetra again and she was looking back at him. He grinned manically, but she didn't smile back, and shortly after the men she was conversing with walked away.

Atton pocketed his purchase and headed back outside. They began to walk again and he returned his arm to her waist where it had been before, but she wriggled awkwardly, gently pushing his hand away with hers. Atton was confused by this but not deterred.

"So, the Cloud's pretty close now, just a block or two away,"

Meetra was silent as she tried to widen the gap between them.

"Actually, I'm.. really tired. I think we should just go back to the _Hawk_."

"Ha! You're not getting out of it that easily," Atton cooed, trying again to put an arm around her, figuring it was nerves again to blame for her change in attitude.

"I just want to go back to the ship," she repeated, firmly, voice flat and unimpressed. Her face was ashen and Atton realized she hadn't looked at him in what seemed like an age. He glanced around, looking for the men he had seen her speaking with.

"Did those Twi'leks say something to you? Is that what's wrong?" he inquired. He reached instinctively to the blaster clipped to his belt, instantly angry at the thought of anyone trying to upset her.

"No! No. They were just...asking for directions. It's really nothing, can we just go?"

"Why don't you just tell me?"

"I'd rather not discuss it here."

"Why? Was it about me? How many credits do I owe them?" Atton grinned weakly, trying again in vain to rescue the night but she was silent. He tried to move to meet her eyes, but she steadfastly avoided his gaze. Atton's face grew dark.

"What did they tell you, Meetra?"

"They said they knew you."

"So what? Lots of people know me."

"Of course," she said. She gave a curt nod, and then stood there with a sour look on her face.

Atton's eyes scanned her face. "Well? You look like a ronto just kicked you in the face. They must have said more than that."

"They, um, seemed to think that Atton's not your name. Told me that...I shouldn't trust you. They called you a murderer," she reluctantly admitted.

Atton had not expected that. He'd gotten a good glance at the Twi'leks and did not recognize them. The night Atton had tried to save just a moment before abruptly capsized, as he bristled and immediately went on the defensive.

"And what? You just believed them?" he said, venom evident in his voice.

"I don't know!" she said, throwing her hands up. She looked at him with knitted brows, waiting for him to tell her it was a lie and everything was fine.

Atton glared at her. "You murder people all the time. You killed people_ today_, Meetra."

"There's...that's..." she stammered, then met his glare with her own. "Murder implies premeditation. It implies something about your intention, Atton."

"Well, so fracking what?" he said, throwing a hand up.

"So it's true?"

"Is what true?"

"Any of it, Atton. Frag. Is Atton your name?" she asked. Her face fell, and she looked quite upset for a moment, but it didn't do anything but make Atton angry.

"I'm as Atton as Atton will ever be," he said, pressing his index finger against his chest.

Meetra shook her head. "Well, what the hell does that mean?"

Atton face contorted with rage because he couldn't restrain it. He walked a few steps away, looked back at her and shook his head in disbelief. He began to pace, evidently too irritated to speak to her. Meetra grew frustrated watching him. It was almost five in the morning now, and the air was crisp. She pulled her sleeves over her hands and folded her arms tight against her chest for warmth.

"Is that why you never tell me anything, Atton? Is that why you're so cagey all the time?" she asked, her voice beginning to waver.

"Listen, Surik, if I had anything I wanted to tell you, I would have come and told you. If that's not good enough, why don't you just crawl inside my head and try to dig out whatever you want to know? It's not like you haven't been trying to all night, anyway."

"I have done no such thing, Atton," she said quietly.

Maybe it shouldn't have, but his words hurt her. Only several nights before, Kreia had encouraged Meetra to read the minds of her companions and she had reluctantly done so. Shame had immediately driven her to Atton to admit her folly and apologise for the intrusion. He'd seemed bothered by it and made no attempt to assuage her guilt. She was sorry then, but it only made her angry now. She wanted to shout at him, ask what difference it made when as far as reading material goes, his mind was more pamphlet than book. That all she ever got from him was stupid pazaak cards. She wanted to ask if there was some equally dark reason for that, too. But she was aware of his delicate ego and the words refused to make it past her lips.

"If I did, I didn't mean to," she said finally. There was some truth in her words. She had not meant to, but she _had_ been aware of it.

"Oh, sure you did. You must think I'm pretty stupid if you expected me not to notice."

"I don't think you're stupid, Atton," she said, exasperated, "I'm _sorry_ if I make mistakes, sometimes."

"I didn't realize they were mistakes, Meetra. I figured you just spread misery everywhere on purpose," Atton seethed. He was worked up now. The truth was, he wasn't really angry at Meetra. More than anything, he was just so certain she'd send him away if she knew the truth and he wanted to strike first, "You know, time doesn't heal the kind of wounds you've inflicted. I know what you did during the Mandalorian Wars, and I know what you did at Dxun and Serroco and Malachor V. But I don't mention it, because I figure it's none of my business. But some random guys come up to you on the street and tell you about something I've done and suddenly you're so disgusted you can't even look at me? You have to go full Jedi and be the morality police because some stoopas in the street want you to? Do you just do what everyone wants you to, Meetra? Is that why you followed Revan to war like a dog?"

"If I did what everyone wanted me to, you would've been out the airlock two months ago, Atton. You can't get along with anybody, you never keep up and I am a much, _much_ better pilot than you are," she shouted, as Atton finally pushed her over the edge.

"Go to hell, Meetra," he pointed at her, face on fire. "You want to know what I did? Is that it?"

"Yeah, yeah, I do," she seethed.

"I killed Jedi, Meetra. I killed a lot of them. Jedi _just like you_," he said, his finger jabbing her chest with each word.

She slapped his hand away. "Don't touch me."

"Changed your mind, Surik?" he cooed, leaning in, vulgar anger thrashing itself about in his throat and eyes and voice. "You've been practically begging for it all night, now it's not good enough?"

Meetra steeled herself, refusing to break his gaze. "Back off, Atton Rand."

Atton waited a second, then stepped back. He lit another cigarette and stood a distance from Meetra, barely holding it together. Meetra took a deep breath, and closed her eyes, trying to think.

"What do you mean, you killed Jedi?" she asked, as calmly as she could manage.

"I mean, I killed Jedi. I was a pilot in the Mandalorian Wars, and after, I followed Revan, and I killed Jedi for the Sith."

Meetra nodded, her neck stiff. "Jedi just like me, huh?"

Atton's agitation was born anew at this comment, and he sneered at her.

"Why?" she asked.

"Because they deserved it," he replied, letting his tone grow dark. He looked down, and took another drag.

"That is _not _a reason, Atton," replied Meetra. Though she hadn't meant to, she had almost shouted and immediately she closed her eyes and turned away, realising that she was only making things worse.

"You want a reason, Meetra? You want a good reason?" he goaded, looking up at her. He strode over and grabbed her shoulder, forcing her to look at him. "They were like you, lying and manipulative and every act of charity and kindness was only to further their own cause."

Meetra pushed Atton away, then, but he didn't let her go.

"You're the worst of them, Meetra. Everything you do, everything, I could drag it all out squirming into the light, show you what it really is. Just arrogance and hypocrisy and the galaxy doesn't need your kind any more," he shouted, practically screaming in her face, while she stared back, growing more incensed at every word. "You're judging me for working for the Sith but you were right there, standing proud beside Revan, of all people, long before I ever did. And then when it got too much, you skulked back to the Jedi Council wanting pity."

"If that's what you think it's because you're too ill-informed and stupid to know any better. Kreia's right, you are a fool, Atton."

"That, right there. That's exactly what I'm talking about. Are you even listening to yourself? The Jedi...The Sith...you don't get it, do you? To the galaxy, they're the same thing. Just men and women with too much power, squabbling over religion, while the rest of us burn. At least the Sith are honest about what they're killing for. The Jedi are pacifists...except in times of war. They're teachers...except when it comes to telling their students the truth. And when they save you, it's only so you can suffer more."

"Is that what I did, Atton? Would you be better off if I'd left you in that Force cage? Would you be happier if you'd never met me?"

Her questions were met with silence. Atton hadn't been talking about her, and hadn't realised she might take it that way. Rancid silence hung between them, and a minute passed that felt like a millennium. Both of them searched for any tiny clue to figure out how everything had gone so wrong, so quickly. Stuck, Meetra realised that Atton wasn't going to say anything. She tried to calm herself and select the right words, but a fresh wave of bile caught her unaware.

"Why you always have to be such a fracking imbecile? I want to know what you've done. I want to know what your name is. Haven't I earned that?"

"Dressing up like a street-walking schutta and having a few drinks together doesn't earn you anything, sweetheart," Atton threw back, bitterly.

"If you want to feel my Force, Atton, just keep talking," she murmured, coldly. Atton glanced at her to see her clenching and unclenching her first as it emitted a faint blue glow but he knew immediately it was an empty threat. He knew she would never hurt him. Ordinarily, it might make him wonder if she cared about him but at that moment, he could only see it as an omission from her that he was weak.

"Maybe I will," he started, trying to goad her into doing something she'd regret, "Maybe I'll remind you that without me, you'd still be stuck on the administration level of Peragus. Maybe I'll remind you how - "

"Don't be a fool, Atton," across her lips moved that word again. She knew how much he hated it. She had never used it before now. "I could have been stuck on the admin level for all eternity and all those Sith still would have come through the airlock for me with or without your help. You really think I couldn't have gotten out of there without you? All you did was stare at my chest the whole time and carry on like a little schutta every time I asked you to do something."

"Yeah, well. I still helped you. I tried to help you."

"You didn't help me because you're a good person or you care about me or anything of the sort, Atton! You helped me because you thought I might be easy and you didn't have anywhere else to go."

Suddenly, Atton lost his appetite for argument. She wasn't really wrong, but it was more than that, and if he had to try and explain it...well, it would mean an admission of feelings Atton wasn't ready to make.

"You know what, I'm done with this. You clearly don't want me around and I can't be bothered trying anymore."

Atton shrugged almost apologetically and began to walk away.

"Atton!" Meetra called. She had not anticipated that her comment would affect him like that. Trepidation coursed through her as she realised she might not see him again.

"Atton, please!" she called again as she began to lose sight of him, "Where are you going?"

He turned around and threw both his hands up.

"Wherever I fracking want to," he called back, before turning his back on her again and disappearing around a corner.

Meetra stood pathetically for a long time. She wanted to follow him but she was still so upset she was sure she'd only make it worse. She sat precariously on the window ledge of a closed store, as the sun started rising over the smoggy skyline. She hadn't cried in many years – not since a month or two after the Council had sent her away, when she was struck by what had happened and felt a gaping, lonely void within her. But she wept now, out of sadness and self-pity. She wept for her dignity, and her indiscretions, new and old. She wept because she had never been an exile, but an orphan all along. Her tears ran from black to grey to clear until her face was bare and puffy.

Eventually, she sat, crossed legged on the filthy ground and tried to meditate out of desperation. As the pressure started mounting on Dantooine, she had found it harder and harder to meditate properly. Weeks had passed since she'd last felt that peaceful kiss, but there in the grimy dawn of the smugglers' moon, the Force granted mercy and bestowed it upon her. As she slipped into a trance, it felt like her fatigued body was landing on a soft, warm bed. The sun finished rising and she returned, feeling sweet relief. Idea after idea began to hit her. She walked home to the _Ebon Hawk_. She hoped to find Atton there, but if not, she would look for him later. For now, she finally had a solid plan for finding Zez-Kai Ell, and that was enough.


	5. What should we call you?

**Chapter Five**

**_Who is more foolish, the child afraid of the dark, or the man afraid of the light?_**

Meetra Surik and her companions convened in the main hold of the_ Ebon Hawk_. On the circular table in the middle of the room, Meetra had set out a number of items. Maps of Nar Shaddaa, credits, power packs, a stealth belt, dossiers she had compiled.

"To reiterate, I'm meeting Visquis at the Jekk'Jekk Tarr at seven. I scouted it out by myself this morning but I'd like you to head there when we're finished here. I'll meet you at six. I'll still need to go in alone, but perhaps you'll be able to see anything I missed," said Meetra, addressing Visas.

"It would be an honour," returned Visas.

"I don't mean to question your judgement, Meetra, but I do not trust Saquesh _or_ Visquis. This is most surely a trap," said Mical, concern clouding his face. Teethree beeped and clicked in agreement.

"The Exile's plan is fragile, but not as simple as it seems. Sometimes, you must walk into your enemy's trap to lure them to yours," spoke Kreia.

"Yes, exactly," confirmed Meetra, "Bao-Dur – were you able to find a Rebreather that will work in the Jekk'Jekk Tarr?"

"No, General," Bao-Dur lamented, "Research has made it clear that a Rebreather alone will...not suffice. The only suitable alternative is..."

Bao-Dur trailed off as they heard the tell-tale screech of the _Ebon Hawk's _cargo ramp descending. Meetra froze, heart filling with hope that it was Atton. Four days had passed since she had last seen him and she had begun to lose hope that he would return. She had worked furiously for the last few days, making fast progress, but as she crossed the city back and forth, she had found not a single sign of the man. The others had asked her, over and over, where he had gone, and she had avoided their questions until they stopped asking.

"It is, indeed, the fool," said Kreia, responding out loud to the swirling in Meetra's head, the disdain in her voice clear and unconcealed, "Depravity has emptied his pockets and strange women have emptied his soul. Now he returns to you, wanting to take advantage of the charity you are always so willing to dispense."

Kreia's assessment was harsh but true. After he had abandoned her during their heated argument earlier in the week, Atton had headed to an Exchange-run cantina that was open night and day. He stayed there for hours until he was forcibly removed for insulting a bar tender over the price of a drink. Retracing his steps from years before, he travelled to the Refugee Sector, to stay in the hostel he'd called home when he was still fresh from the war. He laid in the hard cot, trying to sleep. But as the juma and whiskey started wearing off, Meetra's words started beating in his head again. To silence his thoughts, he struck up a conversation with a young Mirialan in the hostel's communal room and she seemed taken with him. He flirted with her almost aggressively, to spite Meetra, and did not refuse the vial of glitterstim she offered him. What came after that was a blur of more liquor, more spice, and more women, at first seduced and then eventually paid for as his mental and physical state degraded.

But it had all ended in the early hours of this morning when, desperate to break his losing streak, he had cheated at pazaak and been rewarded with a blaster bolt to the arm. It burned a hole in his beloved leather jacket and soaked his shirt in blood. He took shelter in a side street and pressed his arm to stop the bleeding. Fatigue and blood loss made his head swim but just before he passed out, he could have sworn he'd seen Meetra pass on the main road. She was alone; her face glowed and there was confidence in her walk. Before losing consciousness, he realised all he wanted to do was go home to the _Ebon Hawk_. When he awoke six hours later, that was exactly what he did.

No sooner had he walked up the ramp did he regret it. Meetra and her company stared at him with suspicion, maybe even disgust. Given their occupation of the main hold, it had been impossible to enter without gaining their attention. Kreia's words churned in Meetra's stomach and she knew immediately that they were true when she saw Atton. He was squalid. His hair was dank and greasy, his upper half soaked in blood dried and crusted, his lower in dirt and soot. He looked pathetic, eyes blood-shot and swollen, whether from lack of sleep or something else she could not tell. His palms black and nails bitten to the quick with yellow stains on his fingers she knew were from his cigarettes. Meetra thought she had forgiven him, had wanted him to return more than anything but upon seeing him, a rush of hurt clenched its fist around her throat. The two stared at one another fiercely, each refusing to make the first move.

"Atton. You need medical attention," said Mical, finally piercing the awkward silence.

"Blondie, there's a lot of things I need and medical attention from you isn't one of them," rebuffed Atton, not taking his eyes from Meetra.

"His name is Mical, so that is what you _will_ call him. Now, why don't you tell everyone what they should call _you_?" Meetra breathed, her voice ice.

Atton looked away. His attention caught by the maps on the table and the markings and notations Meetra had made in red.

"You're not going to the Jekk'Jekk Tarr, are you? You know that place will melt your lungs before you've even checked your coat, right? It's filled with cyanogen gas and -"

"We're taking measures to avoid that."

"It'll peel your skin clean off, too. You should wear that hokey space-suit we have in the cargo hold. It's airtight, and will hide your face, too. place is packed with bounty hunters and they'll figure out who you are pretty quick. Listen, I had to get in there once for a job, I've got a friend who -"

"Your help costs more than I'm willing to pay, so, thank you, but no," finished Meetra. Atton glanced around and was met with a room full of awkward, shuffling feet and averted gazes, except Meetra, who was defiant, and Kreia, who was unctuous.

"Well. I just came to get my stuff anyway," Atton lied. He walked to the cockpit and quickly stashed in a bantha leather bag his few belongings – his emergency whiskey stash, his blaster's silencer and cleaning kit, a trashy magazine he'd bought when waiting around to refuel at a spaceport last week. Everything else he owned – clean socks and underwear, the expensive straight razor he used to shave – were in the _Ebon Hawk's _refresher and he couldn't be bothered retrieving them. His body ached with bitterness and he wondered to himself how he kept fracking things up. Without another word, he walked back through the hold. Still it was filled with silent bodies that stared until he looked at them and then they looked away. Teethree dwoop-dwooped sadly but Atton ignored the droid, as he slammed the ramp release and left.

Atton had many qualities he hated. But he also had a few he was proud of. His skills with a blaster and a pazaak deck were two. Another was that he never went down in a fight. More than once when he'd been badly wounded in combat, Meetra had howled at him to fall back but he never did. As long as someone was still fighting, he would too. He considered this as he tried to figure out what he was going to do now. If she was going to the Jekk'Jekk Tarr, she needed his help, even if she didn't want it. Even if this was his cue to fall back, he refused. Secrets weren't worth keeping if it meant losing her. He didn't want to go back to the _Hawk_ – too many judging eyes – so he made a few stops and cashed in a few favours, then found a place by the entrance of the docks to wait for her to pass.

He felt patient, for the first time in a long time. He waited for over an hour until he spotted her. Plain, brown Jedi robes, sensible boots and hair in a simple bun at the nape of her neck. She had the helmet of the ugly silver space-suit from the cargo hold tucked under her arm and he could see the crinkled, shiny arm hanging out of the bulging rucksack slung over her shoulder. He stood and walked towards her, and when she spotted him, she tensed.

"And I didn't think you were listening when I suggested the space-suit," he said, smiling as warmly as he could, wanting to put her at ease.

"Turns out not all your ideas are disastrous," she jested, voice still quiet. Atton laughed gently and rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet.

"Yeah, well, broken watch and all that."

Meetra nodded. Atton rummaged around in his bag and presented her with a small bundle, wrapped in paper.

"Medpacs," he offered, "Plus hydroxoco injections. I know we didn't have any in the med bay – they're not easy to get. If that suit gets a breach, you're not going to want to wait to use them."

"Thank you. Listen, Atton -"

"It's Jaq, by the way" he quickly interjected.

"No," she said firmly, her face earnest, "It's Atton. And I'm sorry about the other night. You don't owe me anything, and I'm not going to ask again."

"You know, I want you to tell you. It's just...I don't want you to think less of me. I noticed the way you looked at me, when you found out just a little piece of it all."

"I was...blind sided, Atton," she replied sheepishly. She moved to look him in the eyes, and spoke with a tone sombre and deeply serious, "Once, I sought redemption from those I trusted. I sought forgiveness from those whose forgiveness mattered most, and I was turned away. I will not do the same to you."

Her face was warm and soft and full of truth. Atton wanted more than anything to touch her cheeks and hair and the crook between her neck and shoulder but he held back. He began to speak, the prickly words sticking in his throat at first. He explained his service in the war, that he'd been motivated by the same reasons that had driven her. They sat side-by-side on a railing, taxis and speeders whirring behind, busy people bustling by them. And she listened, heart open, and the words that stuck at first soon were tumbling from his mouth like grains of sand through his fingers. He told her how he'd only been following orders at first. How things had got out of hand, and how his actions had carved a hole in his chest and planted a hate that grew like a cancer. He told of her of the Jedi that had tried to pry him from its clutches, and what he had done to her in retaliation. There was silence between them and she placed her hand in his to fill it.

"Why did you wait for me, here, Atton?"

"I want to protect you. Ever since I met you on Peragus, all I've wanted to do is protect you. That's why I helped you, didn't have anything to do with your underwear."

She dipped her head and smiled.

"I've known for a long time you were Force-sensitive. I didn't realise you knew, too."

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"Like I said, it didn't occur to me that you knew, too. And after spending more than a decade without the Force, I wasn't sure if I was imagining it. It was only faint but I get that you were hiding it, now. You know, you have such disdain for the Jedi. I didn't know how you'd take it. Didn't seem worth mentioning when I could be wrong, anyway."

"I couldn't confront it when she told me but...sitting here with you, I'm not afraid of it anymore. If I learnt to use it, maybe I really could protect you. Or at least buy you some time when disaster comes screaming in. I want you to show me how to use it."

"If that's what you want, then I will, Atton."

He felt her squeeze his hand. He couldn't help it when he raised his injured arm with a wince, and delicately touched her chin so he could kiss her. She leaned away, her face apologetic.

"Atton..."

"Oh!" he laughed awkwardly, "Shavit, I really need a shower, don't I?"

She shook her head.

"It's not that. I can't...do this, and be your Master. That night...I don't think I've ever been that angry. I can't train you like that."

"Meetra. I feel...things for you and I don't want to..." he mumbled, lost.

"Clouds that thunder don't always rain, Atton. Even if this could be something, I don't know that it should. If you want me to teach you, we both need to be focused. No distractions."

"Then maybe I changed my mind. Maybe I don't want you to teach me," he retorted, defensively.

"The relationship between a Master and her Padawan is deeper and more intimate than that, Atton. It is not volatile like romantic love. Allow me to do this, and I will never leave your side. You will never be alone, again," she said, reading his mind without the Force.

His expression was pained, and she realised her words had failed to comfort him, so she touched her forehead to his. For a moment he hoped in vain that she would kiss him but before he got too carried away, he felt the Force tapping away at his mind again. He opened his mouth to remind her that those tricks didn't work on him but she shushed him. The pressure in his head began building and suddenly a blinding flash of heat and light torched the walls he built around himself and he couldn't block it, though he tried. His head stretched with the noise of billions, every living creature, heard their cries for help, their fears, anger, happiness. She reached deep inside of him until she was touching every facet of his being, every moment of his past, present and future. He felt every aspect of her pain and joy, but above all, a love like he had never felt, more intense than any sun. The noise left suddenly, leaving a deep ache within him. He felt a pain in his chest, and realised he'd been holding his breath. She sat patiently, waiting for him to recover. As the agonising power of her Force drained from him, he noticed her rucksack, lying forgotten on the ground and suddenly realised how long they had sat there.

"You shouldn't keep squid-head waiting," he croaked, voice weak.

"Oh...son of a schutta, I was supposed to meet Visas twenty minutes ago."

She stood, and dusted off the back of her robes with her hands.

"Atton. Promise me you'll be on the _Ebon Hawk_ when I get back,"

"Only if you promise that you _will _make it back," he said, still wary of her entering alone. Were he not so incredibly tired and already injured, he would have insisted on coming with her.

"Unless a particularly witty calamari joke will set your mind at ease, you're just gonna have to trust me," she said, picking up her bag and helmet.

"Knock 'em dead, then, Surik."

"Goodnight, Atton," she cooed, as she turned to walk away. No sooner had she left, when she came running back.

"Atton, before I forget. There's a box...it's small, wooden, lots of weird carvings on it. It's in the footlocker in my room. Go home and find it. It's yours. There's something important inside."

Atton blinked, confused to see her again. He nodded.

"Okay. Well," she shrugged when she realised Atton was dazed, "I'll see you later."

With that, she departed again, this time not returning.

Atton returned to the _Ebon Hawk _as the sun began to set. He walked slowly. He was oblivious to the world around him and as harried people pushed him to get past, he said nothing. He felt changed by what she had shown him, just as he did the first time a Jedi did that to him. He ascended the battered vessel's ramp, relieved to find it unoccupied; he did not wonder why. The blaster wound in Atton's arm had not yet been treated, and it was caked with dried blood and dirt but Atton didn't care anymore. He proceeded directly to the refresher where he stripped off his malodorous clothes and stood under the searing hot stream of clean, forgiving water. He showered to wash away the sweat and filth of Nar Shaddaa – the scent of cheap booze and cheap women. He showered to try and wash away the long buried pain and confusion and shame that had drifted to the surface of his mind and mingled with Meetra to make something new and somehow worse. Under the heat of the water, the gash in his arm began to bleed and sting, dripping hot crimson on the durasteel floor, but still he stood until steam cloaked the room and the water ran cold. Afterwards, he roughly bandaged his arm and shaved his face with unsteady hands. He put on the clothes Meetra had purchased him an age ago.

"Just for when you finally feel like washing the clothes you've been wearing since I met you two weeks ago," she'd said when he'd asked her why she would do such a thing. He was thankful, now.

With damp hair and soft, bare feet, he entered Meetra's room. It was small and unimpressive, but impeccably neat. The first thing he noticed was the impressive stack of books she had managed to acquire. He picked up the book sitting on her bed, her page marked with a worn, pink ribbon. He flicked through it but it was not written in a language Atton could read. He sat on her bed, still reeling and numb. He thumbed the soft, white night gown on the edge of her bed. It was short and feminine but he'd never seen her wear it. When she had to get up in the middle of the night, she would always pull on one of the two Jedi robes she owned.

Atton suddenly felt quite ill. It could have been anything – fatigue, the blood loss, the cumulative hang-over from his four-day bender but he knew it was what she had done to him. He laid his head down on her pillow and smelt Meetra and horrok lilies, as he had before and out of nowhere, he was crying. He thanked the Force that it would be hours before Meetra returned as he sobbed and choked on memories old and new, faded and vivid.

When his tears were spent, he sat up and tried to focus on why he was there. He kneeled in front of the footlocker at the end of Meetra's bed and opened it. It was full of a number of things – more books, a blaster that rarely saw use and a few spare power packs for it, what he suspected were lightsaber parts. He took each item out carefully and set them down on the floor as he searched for the box Meetra had described. At the bottom of the case was something familiar – a set of armour, with cloak, boots, belt, gloves and headdress. He had seen it when he'd looked up her deeds during the Mandalorian Wars. It was distinctive, and hard to forget. In hindsight, Atton knew what she had removed from a case at the enclave on Dantooine, and understood why she hadn't wanted to say what it was as she stuffed it in the rucksack she carried.

He gently turned over these items of clothing in his hands. Though she hadn't worn a mask like Revan, it was almost impossible to tell she was _that_ General. Though he was certain he would never tell her, he had seen her once or twice then. She had worn thick, full-face make up that obscured her features and the uniform was clearly Sith inspired. It was jet black with accents of gold and red and exceedingly elaborate, more so than anything the Jedi wore at the time. He noticed she had written her name on the inside of her boots and realised for the first time that she must have been only been sixteen or seventeen at the time and he felt a deep grief for her. At that age, he had still been in school, living with his family on Alderaan, and his biggest problem was working up the courage to ask out whatever girl he liked at the time.

He struggled to reconcile what he had seen with what he was holding in his hands now. The headdress still had smudges of the white paste and powder she had worn on her face, the cloak was ripped and burnt around the edges. The chest plate was mangled on one side, all melted durasteel and plastic. It wasn't hard to see that she must have taken not only a blaster bolt or two to the area, but a lightsaber as well. Almost all of it was spattered with mud and blood spilt and dried long ago. He didn't care to admit that he had sometimes thought her a coward for returning to the Council instead of continuing the fight like he had, but began to wonder what horrors she must have witnessed by the time she made that decision.

He glanced over the last few items in the footlocker and spied what he was after. A dark, wooden box with elaborate carvings, small but still big enough to hold something of worth. He picked it up. It felt warm in his hand and he could swear it was humming. He turned it over and over, looking for a lock or a latch to open, but found nothing. He spotted the seem where he assumed the box would part with its lid and used all his might to pry it open, but his efforts yielded no result. He shook it, raised it to his ear, tapped it on the floor. Then he decided he was too tired to figure it out. He carefully packed each item back as he had found it, and tucked the box under his arm. He left her room and stood outside the door, listening. He figured everyone must have left to help with Visquis. He wanted to help, too, but knew at this point, he'd be more of a hindrance, so he padded down the hall to do as Meetra always suggested, and finally claim a bunk.


	6. Gravity

**Chapter Six**

**_He is no fool who gives what he cannot keep to gain what he cannot lose._**

The _Ebon Hawk_ sailed through the Bothan Run, and inside it was quiet and dark. A dull thump to the head awoke Meetra suddenly and her body tried instinctively to sit up and survey the situation. Instead her limbs scrambled and she felt her body touch cold metal. Twisting around but gaining no traction, cold wetness pressed and rippled across her face. Her eyes blinked hard as dull red light stung them and after a few more moments of trying to get her bearings, it occurred to her that the gravity generator had failed. This was her room, the Captain's quarters, but it looked alien. Her possessions – lightsaber, robes, books, a bottle of horrok lily perfume she saved for special occasions – hung still in the air and a frown crossed her face as she understood she was now wearing the glass of water she had placed earlier by her bedside. A corner of her soft, grey blanket clung to her, as the rest of it sprawled out, suspended in the air. She appraised her trajectory before pushing off the wall with her delicate feet towards the door of her room. She moved faster than she expected and took the blow against the door with her shoulder.

"Schutta," she hissed, as she rotated her shoulder in its socket to ease the blow. She moved her hand to the light settings to find they weren't working, so she slammed her hand on the door latch and proceeded work her way towards the cockpit. It took longer than she expected and she felt more like she was moving through tar than merely air. As she reached the cockpit, she began talking before the door had finished opening.

"Atton, what the frack is going on?" She stopped, waiting for a response, then noticed the tuft of brown hair that usually poked over the top of the pilot's chair was missing.

"Atton?" she pushed up towards the ceiling to peek over the seat, but, save for Atton's trusty jacket, it was empty.

She glanced back to the empty corridor, wondering where Atton could be and what possibly could have gone wrong this time. A familiar whistling filled her ears – Teethree, presumably from the communications room. She pulled herself along the wall with her hands and pressed the release switch on the door. Teethree was upside down near the ceiling. As Meetra entered, the stout droid's disc-shaped head spun and he beeped, clearly excited to see her.

"Teethree! What happened?"

"Doop doop,"

"Is Atton fixing it? Why aren't you helping him?"

Teethree whistled and spun his wheels, showing her he was stuck.

"Oh, yeah. Traction. Well, you may as well shut down, then, I suppose," she shrugged, "Just watch the fall when the gravity comes back on."

"Dwoooop," he lamented.

Meetra slid against the wall back out into the hallway, listening for Atton. She would have called out but one else seemed to have stirred and she didn't want to wake them. Faint, angry, familiar-sounding echoes hit her ears and she figured Atton was in the engine room. She swam through the ships halls to find him, starting to get the hang of the lack of gravity. She sailed past suspended objects, not looking forward to the clean up job that would no doubt ensue. As she passed through the galley, she noticed a rogue muja fruit and snagged it, then made a hard left, and poked her head through the door of the engine room.

There was Atton, on a strangle angle, his hands deep in a panel filled with tangled wires and circuitry. He had a flood light near him that he was readjusting every few seconds as it tried to float away. Around him danced hydrospanners and computer spikes, lengths of wire and rolls of plastoid tape.

"What have you done now, Atton?"

He startled and let go of the small sonic wrench he was holding and it spun away carelessly.

"Hi," he said, curtly, and she noticed that he was looking particularly green. Meetra bit into her muja fruit with a crunch and watched in amusement as Atton wriggled after his lost wrench.

"This is just a hunch," she teased, "but when your birthday rolls around, I'm guessing you don't want any vouchers for a zero-gee massage."

"Yeah, the regular kind will do just fine. As long as it's being delivered by something pretty and female."

She narrowed her eyes.

"What?" he cooed.

"So...are you going to tell me what happened or what?"

"As far as I can tell," he grunted as the wire he was holding electrocuted him and his spanner made another break for freedom, "...something short circuited the gravgen, which triggered emergency protocols. Thus, this lovely red lighting. Teethree could probably fix it in five seconds but he started squealing when I tried to kick him down the hall."

"Can _you _fix it?"

"I could if I could get anything to stay in the same place for more than a damn second," he sighed, words dripping with frustration, "You know, Meetra. This is all your fault."

"Oh really? Please, do tell me how this is all my fault, Mr. Rand," she chirped, eyes wide with mock enthusiasm that Atton chose to ignore.

"I've told you for months now that I can't keep jury rigging everything. We need new parts for...well, everything. Including the snarking generator."

"And I told you, we don't have the credits."

"Whose fault is that? Drop me off at a casino on Corellia and I could have the credits we need before the night's out."

"Yeah, that's not gonna happen," she said casually and took another bite of her muja fruit.

Meetra had gained her sea-legs and was starting to enjoy gravity's absence. In slow motion, she somersaulted, drawing Atton's attention. He hadn't noticed before, but she was dressed in the short, white nightgown he had seen on her bed a few weeks ago – the night the Exchange had tried to take her. The long, Jedi robe she usually wore over it was missing, however. As she tumbled and stretched out her arms, the nightgown lifted up, letting Atton see her toned belly. Another memory caught him – the uniform he found, the one she had worn so many years ago when she was the General and the significant damage it bore. He checked, and saw a corresponding long deep scar, now very faded, crossing over her hip to her abdomen. He surmised that he must have been too distracted to notice it back at Peragus. He snapped out of his thoughts and realized the spanner was missing again.

"Son of a schutta!" he cursed, angrily, "You're enjoying this. Why are you enjoying this? I'm warp-lagged as frag, can't keep track of which way is up and I think my stomach's trying to crawl out my throat."

"How did you get through SAS prevention training when you got your pilot's licence? Wait, you are actually a trained pilot, aren't you?"

"Of course I am!"

"Was your licence issued by the Drunken Mynock School of Instruction, by any chance?"

"Go crink yourself, Surik. And hold that light for me while you're at it."

"Oh, Atton," she sighed, "how are you missing this?"

"Missing what?"

She rolled her eyes and opened her palm, using her mind to order the spanner back within reach of Atton. It stopped still, waiting for him obediently.

"Use the Force."

He gave her a withering look. She had promised to train him weeks ago, now, and all she'd done so far was give him a useless, unopenable box.

"I'll use the Force when you let me have a lightsaber."

"And I'll let you have a lightsaber, when you open that box."

"But...how?"

"I keep telling you, you need to meditate. When you use the Force, the box will open. Have you even tried?"

"Sure, I have."

"I know you're lying, Atton, or the box would be open by now."

"Stop saying box, already, woman. What's so important about it anyway? And why can't I have a lightsaber first?"

"If I give you a lightsaber before you can use the Force at will, I wouldn't be doing you any favours. It's not like using a vibrosword – it has no weight to it, you need be able to sense exactly where the blade is. All the time. So, you know, you don't cut your hands off, you goon. Without the Force, a lightsaber's really only useful as a fancy glow stick or a cigarette lighter,"

"Well, that's just exactly why I want one," he jested.

"Then _meditate_, Atton!"

"Just so you know, the whole cryptic Jedi meditation mystic shtick isn't helping, princess. If I can't do something when I'm totally alert, why would I be able to do it in trance? I mean, listen to the word. _Trance._"

"It's just.. ugh, Atton. Have you ever noticed how I meditate when I'm trying to fix Teethree? When you meditate you can do things that you can't ordinarily do. I know it feels kind of...stupid at first, but I swear it works. Here," she twisted over to him, and took his hands. Her body was on a strange angle to his and he tilted his head to look her in the eye.

"Listen," she started, her voice low and calm, "There is a sound that only you can hear. It is hard to notice, but when you do, it is louder than anything else. Let it pass over you, through you. Feel its current, its eddies, listen to it echo and harmonise with your thoughts."

Atton listened, but heard nothing but the void of space and the usual creaking of the _Ebon Hawk_. He felt embarrassed, but he tried to concentrate, tried to imagine the spanner returning obediently to his hands, the wires untangling themselves. He groaned in irritation.

"This is useless, Meetra. I can't do it."

"I wouldn't be encouraging you to try if I didn't believe you could, though, Atton. Let's try again. Draw on your memories. Have you ever felt a...deep peace? Just quiet, perfect bliss."

He had, once.

"Put yourself there. Close your eyes and try to remember what it felt like."

He was still sceptical, but he tried. He thought back to Dantooine, before they had reached the enclave. It was a warm day, and the fresh, cool breeze felt exhilarating after weeks of stale, recycled Telosian air. They had set out that morning with Bao-Dur, and spent the day hunting kinrath. They had stopped at a river to rest. Bao-Dur sat on the grass, far away but still in sight, making small repairs on Remote. Atton and Meetra had ventured closer to the water, and she had taken off her boots and dipped her feet in the stream. She told him she had often done so, in this same place, as a child. She removed from her pack a paper bag filled with three cream puffs and he wondered where on Dantooine she had found them. He hadn't eaten anything sweet or hand-made in months, and it tasted glorious. Meetra called to Bao-Dur, but he told her he didn't want his. He suggested they play pazaak for it. She said she did not know how and besides, she didn't have a deck. He had produced from his jacket a new deck he had bought for her. He taught her how to play, disappointed to find she had not a drop of talent for it. He lost to her on purpose, so he could see her smile. Somewhere, his reality diverged from what he remembered. He felt himself taking his own shoes off and putting his feet in the water. He hadn't done that, he knew, but he'd wanted to. He heard Meetra's soft voice, speaking far away, as the Meetra beside him hummed a tune from his childhood. He inhaled fresh, crisp air. There was only white noise and serenity inside of him. As he looked back to her, he saw every component of the gravity generator lying before him. It suddenly seemed so _clear. _Atton worked quickly, snapping each piece back together like a puzzle and was immediately torn back to the engine room of the _Ebon Hawk_.

The ship's emergency lighting shut off and its regular bright, white light flickered on. A huge lurching groan rumbled deep below them and they dropped to the floor suddenly as the gravity simulator staggered back into action and a cacophony erupted around them – dull thumps, sharp clangs, broken glass and Mira's muffled voice screeching "son of a hutt!" from the quarters she now shared with Visas.

Meetra started laughing, and Atton couldn't help but follow suit. He felt proud – a genuine kind of pride, the satisfaction of completing a task both challenging and important. It was a kind of pride he had seldom been privy to in his lifetime. He stood then took Meetra's hand and pulled her to her feet. She gently rubbed her backside where she had landed, and grinned at him.

"I...I..." she yawned long, then grinned again, "I knew you could do it,"

"Well that makes one of us," he admitted, then gestured to the scattered tools and shattered flood light on the floor, "You go back to bed. I'll clean this up."

"Thank you," she nodded, "Good night, Atton."

She left and he gathered up his tools and disposed of the broken shards of plastic and glass. As he headed to the galley to clean his hands, he remembered the box. It was stashed in the compartment under the _Hawk_'s main controls, where he kept most of his belongings. Over the past few weeks, he had pulled it out many times but never made any progress with it. Meetra had been cryptic about what exactly he had to do to open it, but he was pretty sure he knew now.

He returned to the cockpit, sat down and withdrew the wooden curiosity, setting it on the _Hawk_'s dash. He closed his eyes and tried to remember Meetra's words, tried to hear them again in his mind. Inside him, a feeling stirred akin to what _that _Jedi had shown to him so long ago, something like what Meetra had done to him on Nar Shaddaa. But it was different – instead of something trying to get in, he realised something was trying to escape. Atton's eyes opened and all he could see was the warm, blue light of the Force. He felt the box without touching it, almost as if it was part of him. Before long, he knew every inch of it and found the tiny latch inside and willed it to unlock. The light dissipated and he was back in the cockpit, the box still before him, now split in two. Inside was a pale, orange crystal, its incandescence blinding. When Atton carefully picked it up, it shone brighter and warmed in his hand. Still in the box was a folded note, that he suspected was from Meetra. He quickly unfolded it and scanned through it.

_Atton,_

_This is a box I was given as a child, and I now pass it on to you. It was made by an H'drachi Force-__sensitive and is designed to only open with the Force. I received it from a Jedi Master on Dantooine whose Padawan had recently been Knighted. She told me that inside was a treasure more valuable than I could imagine, and if I could open it, the contents would be mine. I was seven years old, and it took me many weeks to finally succeed. To say I was displeased to find it empty is an understatement. I petulantly demanded the Jedi explain why she had lied, and she explained to me I had indeed received a gift. By opening it, I had allowed the Force to move freely through me. She took me as her Padawan and began shaping me into the Jedi you know today._

_I don't know how this message will reach you, but tonight, I walked through the empty streets of Telos and a woman approached me, claiming to be a friend of a friend. She was twi'lek, blue-skinned and very young and I did not recognise her. She would not give her name, or that of our supposed mutual acquaintance, but claimed she carried a gift from him to me. She gave me an unmarked package, and left as quickly as she came._

_When I opened it, there lay the same crystal I have sealed in this box. When I touched it, I received a vision – my first without assistance in many, many years. I felt the touch of the Jedi Knights who had wielded lightsabers powered by this crystal and it spoke its name to me – Solari, incredibly old and powerful, unable to be corrupted and responsive only to those purest of heart. Even stranger, I saw you unsealing this box and taking this crystal, it responding to your touch. My heart tells me that this crystal was not destined for me, but for you. I serve only as another courier on its way to you. I would like you to take this crystal, and this box, and make of them what you can. Just one request, though – please don't lose them in a game of pazaak._

_All my love,_

_Meetra._

Meetra had already admitted that she knew he was Force-sensitive before he told her, but had not specified just how long she had known. However, that shock would come to Atton later. For now, another wave of pride swept over him, and without thinking, he headed down the hall to tell Meetra. Too excited to be considerate, he pulled the release on her door and switched the lights on,

"I did it. You owe me a lightsaber, woman!" he called. Though time had passed quickly for Atton, it was in fact, several hours since he had last seen her and she had since fallen back into a deep sleep. She groaned at the rude awakening and pulled her pillow over her head.

"Atton, turn that damn light off before I stuff you in the AutoChef," she croaked.

"Sorry," he said, unapologetic. He did as she asked, but didn't back down, "Were you listening though? I opened that damn box!"

He walked over and knelt next to her bed. A sliver of white light spilt through the door, across her face, as she cautiously peeked out from under her pillow.

"You did?"

"Yeah. So what was that inside?"

"I could have sworn I wrote a note to explain. That was ages ago, though, maybe I forgot to."

"You didn't," he admitted, "I just...kinda...read it in a hurry. Or didn't read it. I was excited, okay?"

Meetra propped her chin on her hand.

"Well. It's a lightsaber crystal. And, as far as I can tell, it wants you. Why that would possibly be is a mystery only the Force could know, but there you have it," she smiled, her tone sweet. Her eyes were sleepy as she resettled, drawing her blanket up around her.

Atton realised that he loved her. He loved her more deeply than he ever thought he could love another person. If he had a thousand lives, he would follow her in every one, and he would lay down each of them to protect her. And if she told him that they couldn't be in this life time, then he would simply wait for the next, and then the next until she finally changed her mind.

"I should let you sleep. I'm sorry I woke you up," he whispered.

"Don't sweat it. I'm tired, but I am proud of you," she replied.

He stood and crossed the room, turning his head back to look at her before he left. For once his mind was open, so he shouldn't have been surprised when she answered him before he had a chance to ask.

"I've got all the stuff, I'll help you make your saber in the morning. Just_ please_ stop stomping around and go to bed. It's almost four."

"Yes, Master," he replied, bowing brief and jokingly before heading out the door and down the hall, a trace of vim in his step.


	7. Fire eye'd boy, give 'em all the slip

**Chapter Seven**

_**Whatever is begun in anger ends in shame.**_

Atton held his blaster's stock, and turned it back and forth, watching the light bounce off it. Before him on the dashboard, rested all the parts of his newly disassembled pistol. He was doing this for Meetra, because he loved her. Was _in_ love with her. His feelings for her hadn't been strictly platonic for a long time. There was a moment, months ago, on Dantooine, when the two of them, Bao-Dur and Mical had been walking to the _Ebon Hawk _from the broken Enclave. They'd only just met Mical, and jealousy was ramming Atton's chest with all the force of a wild ronto. She was speaking with Mical, and she seemed excited, pleased. He couldn't figure out why his only impulse was to grab Mical's shoulder, spin him around and punch him square in the face, when Meetra looked over her shoulder. The breeze lifted her hair and she smiled at him. He'd always been attracted to her on a physical level, but it was then he knew he wanted her and all attempts to resist were pointless. That was then, though. That was a crush, an infatuation, and it obscured the faults of his heart's desire. But Atton loved her now. Truly loved her and cared for her, and true love grants clarity, and he could see now, that some things about her really just annoyed the utter hell out of him.

She was stubborn, often debating her opinions long past the point where they could be considered interesting. He was pretty sure that if she ever came across an opponent she couldn't beat physically, she could just talk at them until they gave up or topped themselves to relieve the boredom. She was also meticulously neat. He hadn't noticed at first, but as they collected more and more junk in their travels, she was constantly organising and reorganising everything to be just so, and had no compunction about advising her companions on how they should keep their belongings, too. Atton didn't know if she was oblivious or simply didn't care.

Her Force lessons were another thing. Only the other morning, having just left the shower, he was methodically swirling his silky toccat bristle brush against a hard, scented pat of shaving soap, when she barged in. She propped herself up on the basin, completely ignoring that he was wearing little more than a towel slung precariously around his waist, and smiled that hypnotic smile. She insisted that he exercise his Force by using it to shave, and he thought she'd gone mad. He'd humoured her because he knew she wouldn't give him a minute of peace until he tried, and it went just as abysmally as he'd expected. He hadn't cut himself shaving _that_ badly since he was a teenager. Instead of apologising for the maiming or the intrusion, all she did was assert that precision was important. Apparently bleeding out was not.

It has also become abundantly clear during their travels that she was frightened of speeders. Not Sith Lords, or bounty hunters, or the Exchange, or even Kreia, but speeders. She had never outright admitted it, but she had a whole arsenal of unconvincing excuses to avoid them, and then they were unavoidable she would refuse to ride them alone. Instead, she would seat herself behind Atton and hold on tight. Not the endearing or even arousing kind of tight. He could appreciate that. No, this was the kind of tight where needle like fingers threatened to tear his ribs apart. The kind where he would find her sharp little chin pressed painfully hard into his shoulder blade and an occasional high-pitched squeal would sting his ear, provoking from him more than just a tingle of irritation. He could have tolerated this annoyance more readily if she would admit she was frightened, but getting such a confession from her was pointless because, again, she was stubborn.

But what really annoyed Atton the most was when she nagged him about his blaster jamming. Their last few days on Nar Shaddaa had been a constant stream of complaints from her about that. There had been an _incident _where she ended up with a black eye. It wasn't like it was his fault. Sure, she'd been yelling at him to shoot that one guy who was charging at her. Maybe she was already pretty occupied with two others. But, hell, she was the one that let herself get distracted when he started cursing and slamming his blaster against the wall. Totally wasn't his fault. At best, it was a shared fault. Atton was sure.

Perhaps not. It was Atton's desire to quell any reason she had for nagging or whining at him, because he loved her, and when she was in a good mood, she cooed at him and smiled at him and looked at him as though she found him incredibly handsome. And so, he had devoted the last few hours of their journey to Onderon to cleaning his blaster. He set the stock down, and picked up his spot luma. He squinted, through it, and began to wonder where he could find something to polish it, when he heard the cockpit door slide open.

"Greetings, Padawan," floated Meetra's lovely voice, her tone filled with cheek.

"Hey, you," responded Atton.

She sat in the chair beside him, her hand brushing his shoulder, gently but deliberately. Now, that was something he _did_ like about her. The tension between had reached fever pitch on Nar Shaddaa a couple of months earlier, and they'd kissed. She'd been firm with him that nothing could happen, but almost immediately after, had begun making small gestures such as touching shoulder when she sat next to him and diligently bidding him goodnight, every night. It was her subtle way of telling Atton she belonged to him, all the same, and the sentiment was most certainly not lost on him.

"I need you in the cargo hold. We're practising lightsaber combat. Everyone's waiting."

"Oh, well, I'm kind of busy," he deflected.

"Atton," she rolled her eyes, "I can't believe after whining for weeks about getting your own saber, you haven't even used it."

"That's not true!" he argued, "I use it to reheat my coffee all the time. Works pretty well, actually."

Meetra sighed, touching a finger to her temple as she gently shook her head. She held her palm flat, and his lightsaber hilt sailed to her obediently from the hook on the wall where it rested. She stood as she pressed it into his hands.

"Seriously. Cargo hold. Now."

"Fine, fine," he relented, and as she sauntered down the hall, he reluctantly followed. Murmurs of conversation drifted down the hall, and before they reached the cargo hold, Atton grabbed her arm.

"So, who's in there?"

"Oh, you know, Bao-Dur, Mira, Mical," she said, casually.

"Not Visas? Why does she get private lessons?"

"Because she already knows how to use a lightsaber, Atton."

"Still, that's really not fair," he said, and decided to play his whole hand. He placed a hand flat on the wall and loomed over her, making his voice low and salacious, "I think one-on-one lessons would benefit me much more."

"Oh, Atton," she said, eyes wide and a smitten look passing over her face as she brushed her finger-tips over his chest, "There's a lot of things I'd like to do with you, one-on-one."

He hadn't expected _that_.

"But this isn't one of them," she finished, flatly, and pulled herself away, marching into the cargo hold.

_Women._

Meetra clapped her hands for silence as she entered the room, and her small group of fledgling Jedi stood to attention. Atton slipped in quietly, a moody frown on his face. When he revealed to her he was Force-sensitive, she'd hardly pressed the issue. In fact, it was his suggestion she train him. It wasn't that it been bad so far, Meetra's slightly unconventional teaching style aside. But something about using a lightsaber made him uneasy, and he really had avoided it. He told himself that a blaster was simply a superior weapon. That, really, he didn't need a lightsaber. Secretly, however, it brought back just one too many memories, and that using the signature weapon of those he had once so mercilessly slaughtered felt unexpectedly wrong.

"Atton?" Meetra's voice startled him.

"What?" he asked, realising that he hadn't been paying even a lick of attention.

"Shii-Cho. What is it? What do we use it for?"

"Pretty sure it's some green muck usually served with gizka," he said breezily.

"Oh, no, Atton, Shii-Cho is a lightsaber form," Mical offered sincerely.

"Yeah, I think he knows that, doll face," interjected Mira, words mischievous but timbre kind.

"Well, I was only trying to help," replied Mical.

"I didn't ask for your help, beek-monkey," said Atton, eyes narrow.

Bao-Dur and Meetra exchanged frustrated glances.

"Perhaps the General would prefer it if we returned to the task at hand," said Bao-Dur, sombre enough to temporarily abate the bickering. Meetra smiled at him, and silently mouthed her thanks.

"You're obviously all a little too restless for theory at the moment. No offence taken, I know it's dry at the best of times," Meetra started, calmly, "You can go in a minute, but first we spar. This is a fairly simple exercise. I want you to all attack me in unison. You must work as a team, pre-empt each other's moves by feeling one another through the Force."

Meetra withdrew a lightsaber hilt, different to what she usually wielded, and activated it.

"I'll be using this practice saber, so I won't be able to actually incapacitate any of you," she continued, raising her foot and using the blade to tap the bottom of her boot, to demonstrate, "But if I do hit you, you're out."

"And what are we to use?" queried Mical.

"Use your actual lightsabers."

"What if we hit you, though? I do not wish to harm you, Meetra," pressed Mical, a sincere concern washing over his face.

Meetra just smiled.

"You must always temper the lethality of your weapon with the philosophy of the Order. You must only kill when no other option is presented. Your goal is to merely disarm me, as it should always be."

"You don't think any of us can actually hit you, do you?" said Mira, eyebrow cocked.

"The General skills are exceptional. I doubt she has much to fear from us," offered Bao-Dur.

"Well, that too," grinned Meetra, "Now. Start in Makashi form, change as the situation requires. Make parrying your top priority. Work together to create an opening to perform a sun djem."

Meetra took her stance, holding her blade horizontally above her head, her feet spread. The familiar drone of lightsabers filled the air as the four armed themselves.

As each of them had agreed to Meetra's instruction, she had helped them create a lightsaber suited to them. Mical's was first. They had harvested, from Dantooine, a simple but powerful blue Adegan crystal. Bao-Dur's was made with Pontite they had purchased from the scavengers surrounding the ruins of the Jedi Enclave. It was a brilliant silver with a faint blue glow. Mira's saber was double-bladed, and contained a deep purple crystal from the planet Hurikane. They had bargained a Rodian vendor hard for it, back on Nar Shaddaa. It had been expensive, but Mira insisted on purple. In return, Meetra insisted on the double-blade, trying to encourage Mira to stretch her limits. And Atton's was a rich yellow, almost bronze, and glowed an intense orange around the edges. The crystal responsible for its unique hue had been a gift from Meetra.

They stood around her in a square, casting unsure glances back and forth, trying unsuccessfully to read each other's thoughts. Atton was the only one with any skill in that area, and he had already decided he was not going to take part. They attacked her, one by one, with hesitation and she parried their attacks easily.

"You cannot defeat someone whose skills outweigh your own unless you co-operate," advised Meetra.

Encouraged, Mical launched himself towards her, while Mira attacked from behind. Without hesitation, Meetra stunned Mical and sent him reeling with a blinding flash of Force from one hand, while the other reached behind to parry Mira backwards. Before Mira had chance to recover, Meetra had returned focus to Mical, swiped him across his chest and kicking him to the ground. Meetra sprung gracefully over Mira, stabbing her in the back when she landed. The two retreated to the edge of the room, bruised, perhaps, but unharmed.

Bao-Dur was circling Meetra now, while Atton stood still. Bao-Dur and Meetra fenced, while she watched Atton from the corner of her eye.

"Atton, attack me," she ordered, saber pressed firm against Bao-Dur's, equally impressed by the Zabrak's strength as she was annoyed by the pilot's apathy.

"Look, I don't want to. Count me out," he replied, exasperated.

Meetra had had enough, and as soon as she had freed herself, she leapt across the room and rushed Atton, forcing him to raise his saber to deflect hers.

"When did you become such a coward, flyboy?" she hissed at him, trying to elicit a more enthusiastic response. She held her hand back, Force pushing Bao-Dur off his feet as he tried to re-enter the fray, "If you're too much of a drooling fool to fight me, maybe you should just stay in the cockpit from now on."

Though he was able to defend against the simple thrusts and jabs she was making, Atton was growing angry. He didn't want to fight her, but not because she scared him.

"If you can't beat a Jedi, then you certainly can't beat a Sith Lord," she hissed, turning her back on him to continue fighting Bao-Dur.

The mounting rage within him frothed and ran over. She knew. Surely, she knew – _had to know_ why he didn't want to fight her. Blinded by the bitterness inside him, he edged around her slowly until he was just outside her range of vision. Old instincts took over, and he felt himself slide unwillingly into a role he hadn't played in many years. It fit like a soft leather glove, more snug than he wanted. He saw Meetra turn suddenly, face panicked. She'd heard him cry for help, but no one else had. His doing.

He watched in slow motion as one of the flash grenades he kept in the holster around his waist left his hand and bounced across the floor, saw her eyes blink hard in confusion, knowing she couldn't see anything but blinding white.

When she recovered, he was there, waiting. She saw Bao-Dur restrained under the threat of his own lightsaber, held against his neck by Atton. She saw Atton's own ochre blade pointed squarely at her.

"What are you doing?" she asked, sounding uncharacteristically timid.

"Surrender, Jedi, or your Padawan dies with you," he said. The words snaked venomously from his mouth. He didn't even have to choose them, he'd uttered them many times before. Meetra looked confused, and glanced at Bao-Dur as if trying to determine whether they had planned this. The strained look on his face told her that they had not. She couldn't understand what was happening before her. She scanned the scoundrel's face but couldn't find a trace of Atton, anymore.

They stared at each other hard and heated, her eyes trying to implore him to hold back, but it only incensed him further. He released Bao-Dur and plunged at her, his attacks relentless until his blade sliced through the hilt of her weapon, rendering it useless. It was effectively over, but Atton couldn't calm himself and without even stopping to consider it, he was choking her. Not with his hands, but the full brunt of his Force. Every ounce of strength he had was channelled into constricting her throat and raising her feet off the ground. He dropped her and she landed on her back, but he didn't relent, pushing his boot down hard on her chest as she tried to gasp for air, heated beam of plasma lingering menacingly at her throat. He heard voices shouting at him, saw her mouth moving but couldn't make out what she was saying. Suddenly the _Ebon Hawk _lurched, pushing Atton off her. He barely kept his balance as he stumbled awkwardly, and a hot flush of shame burned in his stomach.

"It appears our vessel has become the target of a Republic cruiser. If we are to survive this encounter, it would be advisable for you to all return to your posts."

He couldn't know how much she had seen, but Kreia's voice, for once, was a welcome relief, and Atton didn't waste time heading back to the cockpit. Meetra couldn't speak, a combination of breathlessness and shock. Mira helped her back to her feet, concern genuine as she tried to ascertain if her Master was injured. Meetra batted her away, words still failing.

The _Ebon Hawk _groaned again, demanding their attention.

"Meetra, you really don't look okay," Mira chimed in.

"I'm fine," confirmed Meetra, voice cold. She pushed past them, stomping down the hall after Atton. She slammed the release on the cockpit's door, and walked in. Atton's head dipped, as though he was bracing himself.

"Status?" barked Meetra.

"We're getting flanked. They've fired what I think were supposed to be warning shots, but they're Republic ships, not sure why they're hostile."

"What's this?" she said, gesturing at the blinking light on the holoterminal.

Atton glanced up at Meetra. "Message from some Colonel Tobin. Patch it?"

She gave him a curt nod, and Atton hit the bottom. The terminal flickered to life, displaying a blue hologram of a menacing man in formal dress.

"The _Ebon Hawk_. I was told to expect your arrival. I don't know your business on Onderon, but it ends here," seethed Tobin.

Meetra's lip curled, and she slammed the disconnect button with her fist. "Yeah, because I don't have enough people trying to kill me as it is."

"Meetra," said Atton, a fresh wave of guilt rocking forth inside him.

"Not now, Atton," snapped Meetra.

Atton squared his jaw, fingers flicking switches above his head. "What do you want to do?"

"What are our options?" She looked at him pointedly, resting a hand on her hip.

Atton looked away. His hands ran on impulse, honed by years of practice. He paused momentarily, then kept working. "We can fight back, or I can outrun them and hide on Dxun. It's your call."

"I am_ not _running," said Meetra, her voice close to a growl.

"Meetra, listen -" he started, voice forceful but she cut him off.

"Get the shields up," she said, before folding her arms tightly and leaving the cockpit. A minute later, Atton heard a metallic crush, as Meetra slammed the circular durasteel door to the turret shut behind her. He shifted his hips in his chair. For the most part he was happy to play the fool because it meant people didn't ask questions he didn't want to answer. But this was not a new experience for him, far from it. He spared a moment to plead to whatever would listen – be it a deity or luck or the Force – that Meetra would move past this easily and forgive him, then let his mind sink back into another abandoned role.


	8. What you'd rather forget

**Chapter Eight**

_**Only the dead have seen the end of the war.**_

"You know, just _once_," said Atton, when he heard the cockpit door slide open behind him, "I wish someone was glad to see us. But no, if it isn't weapons pointed at our heads, it's someone trying to blast us out of the sky."

"Or Force choking us, or crushing our ribcages, or throwing fracking flash grenades in our faces," muttered Meetra as she entered, her voice languid and low. She flicked her hand over the screen at the console, looking at diagnostics.

The corner of Atton's lip twitched, a mix between irritation and guilt. "Meetra, I didn't mean to -"

"Just forget it," she interrupted. "Where do we go from here?"

Atton paused for a long time. He knew he had two options; he could either push an apology, or back off. He still did not know Meetra well enough to know which approach was best, so he took the easiest. "Battle's still going on overhead. We're not exactly going to be able to just skate past them."

Meetra nodded, her nose crinkling as she realised none of their shields were operational and the hull had been breached. There was a silence, then she headed for the door. "I don't understand why they attacked us," she said, still walking.

Atton realised she expected her to follow him, and obediently stood and jogged down the hall behind her. "Neither. Something isn't right about this. I mean, Onderon's about as far away from the Core as you can get and still be in the Republic, but somehow they know who we are."

Meetra stopped in the main hold. Bao-Dur was there, and Meetra gave him a pleasant, genuine smile. Then she looked at Atton and her face turned blank. "Where did we land?"

"Dxun," said Atton, scratching the back of his head. "I found a clearing in the jungle."

A strange look passed over Meetra's face. She shook her head as though she found what Atton had said intensely irritating. "I'm heading out," she said, waiting for no one's approval before she swept from the room, headed for the Captain's quarters to change.

Atton noticed then that Bao-Dur was staring at him. He could not tell if it was a judgemental gaze or something else, but he held it and waited for Bao-Dur to speak.

"Is the ship badly damaged, Atton?" he asked eventually.

"We're not leaving any time soon," offered Atton, with a shrug.

Bao-Dur raised an eyebrow, imploring Atton to elaborate.

"Shields are shot. Big-ass hull tear towards the rear. Plus all the other problems this piece of shavit already had."

Bao-Dur nodded in acknowledgement. "I doubt we will have the resources we need to fix those kinds of problems just laying around."

"I saw a lot of crashed ships out in the scrub while I was landing. I'm sure we can scavenge what we need," said Atton, thankful that Bao-Dur seemed intent to ignore what had happened earlier in the cargo-hold.

"Yes," said Bao-Dur.

The conversation died there, and the silence in the room hung rancid. Atton leaned back against the wall and folded his arms, in hopes a casual position would ease his discomfort but it did nothing. Bao-Dur slid his hands in his pockets and just watched the floor, and as if things weren't uncomfortable enough, Mira walked in, looked at Atton for two seconds, then immediately turned on her heel and walked out again. Atton gave a frustrated sigh and cursed under his breath.

"I think I might go...check on the droids," said Bao-Dur, finally.

Atton was relieved enough to be left alone that he refrained from rolling his eyes at Bao-Dur's lack of subtlety.

"Don't let me stop you," he said, but Bao-Dur was already gone.

Atton exhaled, and was ready to head back to the cockpit to sulk when Meetra re-entered, armed and steely-eyed. They stared at one another but were saved again by Kreia who entered shortly after.

"Exile," said Kreia, and Meetra looked to her, obediently. "I feel it would be wise to explore your surroundings. There is...something to be found here."

"Already planning on it," said Meetra, through a tight, fake smile. She tapped the lightsaber clipped to her belt with her palm.

"I did pick up the remains of an old outpost near here. Maybe that's why there's all these clearings around – maybe they were once settlements," offered Atton trying to be helpful.

Meetra just grimaced. "Why didn't you say anything sooner?"

"You didn't ask," defended Atton, jutting out his chin.

"Oh, I see. When I ask you something, you say 'If I had something to tell you, I would have told you.' But when I wait for you to tell me something, you say I should have asked," spat Meetra.

Atton glared at her, then remembered that he was in the wrong. He tried to soften his face, and made moves to apologise but was cut off by Kreia.

"There were no settlements here. Those clearings were most likely once craters...or crash sites. Nevertheless, Exile," she said, demanding Meetra's attention once again, "We should explore our surroundings. And the outpost does seem an appropriate place to start."

"Fine," said Meetra, her tone terse. She stood there for a moment, feeling awkward.

"I'll come with you," said Atton. He wasn't sure if his offer was born of a desire for alone time with Meetra to repair the damage he had done, or a simple need to be rid of Kreia's company.

"I feel your attention would be better served repairing the damage done to the ship," said Kreia, as though she could read Atton's thoughts.

Atton almost snarled. He looked to Meetra, then, and she seemed to have little interest in arguing.

"Maybe I'll take Mical," said Meetra, an airy tone to her voice.

Atton almost wanted to laugh at her pathetic attempt to irritate him. The only reason he didn't was because it worked.

Meetra turned, then, and marched from the room and down the hall. Atton thought it over and realised he did not like this situation at all. Though he had not known her long, not really, she had rarely been upset with him. But whenever she was, it always bothered him more than he would care to admit. He loved her, and wanted her to touch his shoulder, and coo at him, and lose endless games of pazaak to him. He did not want her making jabs about Mical and snapping at him over pointless things. He started to follow her, but Kreia's voice made his feet fall still.

"Atton," she said.

"What?" he demanded, turning his hard towards her in a sharp motion.

"You came dangerously close to breaking your promise to me," said Kreia. She took slow steps towards Atton, dipping her chin in a way that seemed unreasonably menacing.

Atton bristled, then grit his teeth. "Yeah, well. I didn't break shavit, you old witch, so back off."

Kreia's hand clenched, and Atton felt an unpleasant sensation travel down his spine that made him flinch. It began at his nape and ended at his pelvis, and felt like a series of tiny needles, each colder and duller than the last. It was a feeling that had been forgotten, but was once familiar, and the reunion with this sensation made Atton's skin crawl.

"I forbade you to harm her," hissed Kreia, stepping closer as Atton jerked his head. "And yet, you grow impatient."

"I lost my temper for a minute, that's all," defended Atton. He threw a hand up then began to walk away, intent on leaving, but something pulled him back. He turned around and pointed at Kreia. "It wasn't anything. I didn't mean to...I didn't want to..." Atton stammered, then made a frustrated, self-pitying groan. "She said it was fine."

"But it's not fine, is it?" murmured Kreia.

Her voice was unsettling in its hush, and Atton grew more uncomfortable by the second. Meetra often stood up for Atton when Kreia began to grate on him, which he appreciated even if it was slightly humiliating to have his battles fought by a woman half his size. In addition, he was certain Meetra was livid with him at the moment, but despite it all, he couldn't help hoping she would walk back in right now.

"For the remainder of our time here, you will not leave the ship again," asserted Kreia. "Dxun is a festering world of unpleasant memories for the Exile. It is where she first truly tested her mettle. And she needs to face her past without your particular brand of distraction."

Atton closed his eyes, and his mind made a link between what Kreia had said and his own memories. "She fought here?"

"In a manner of speaking," said Kreia, sounding almost amused by herself.

"Why didn't she say anything?" asked Atton, frowning.

"Do you talk about all your battles, Atton? I did not see you volunteering your history with this place."

Atton's jaw hung slack for a moment, as he struggled for a response.

"Perhaps, like you, there are some things the Exile would prefer remain forgotten," said Kreia. She gave Atton a small, sickening smile, then turned and left. He could only stand there, alone, lost in himself.


	9. Jaq meets Revan

******Chapter Nine**

**_It was pride that changed angels into devils; it is humility that makes men as angels._**

Jaq was only twenty-two. A talented and experienced pilot, he had gained his licence at seventeen, back when he still lived with his parents on Alderaan. After a few years of working trade routes, he'd managed to land a coveted co-pilot position on the luxurious personal yacht of a member of the Alderaanian Monarchy. As jobs went, it was fulfilling but suited him well enough. Glamorous destinations, paid well, lots of time off. But less than a year ago, duty's sweet song had whispered in his ear, and he threw it all away to launch himself into the fray of the Mandalorian Wars. The valour of the Revanchist inspired him. They were so different to the aloof, mysterious Jedi he had bore witness to as a child, and further removed still from the Jedi that sat on the Council, turning deaf, uncaring ears to the Republic's pleas for help.

He was only a Private, but had received an invitation from Revan following an incident, two months earlier, at the Second Battle of Dxun. Jaq had taken command of what was left of his panicking and scattered platoon after more than two thirds of them, including their Lieutenant, were slaughtered by the Mandalorians. The whole event had been surreal and looking back he felt like he had been guided by hands he could not see, an intuition that was not his own. Somehow, their damaged handful of remaining Aureks had beaten almost insurmountable odds to destroy the weaponry of a Mandalorian _Jehavey'ir_, clearing the path for a fellow, intact platoon to intervene.

His praises were not unsung, and while he had maybe expected a promotion, a face-to-face meeting with the Revanchist he had not. But there he stood, with a group of maybe two hundred other soldiers who had been summoned to Revan's capital ship. It was grand, even more so than the royal yacht he had once piloted. The room they stood in was extraordinarily large, with an elaborate glass domed ceiling that at the moment was positioned perfectly to view the Eryon constellation. Republic banners made of velvet hung over walls etched with detailed depictions of military victories through the Jedi and Republic's long and storied history. He felt a little anxious as many hushed conversations merged into one long drone that hummed in harmony with the workings of the ship. He held between his hands the soft, felt cap that was part of his uniform, mindlessly rubbing his fingers over the rough puggaree to calm himself. He kept his eyes firmly on the doorway, and mumbled "yeah" intermittently to give the young man on his left the impression he was listening to his shop-talk about the vessel's hyperdrive.

After what seemed like an eternity of waiting, they entered. _Revanchist_. Jedi Crusaders who had defied orders and taken up arms to defend the Republic. Such a gathering of power Jaq had never been privy to before.

Revan stood, front and center, before the gathering. He was _the _Revanchist, the one who had started their revolution, and now Commander-in-Chief of the Republic Military. He was more intimidating than Jaq had expected. Everyone knew what the mask looked like but now it was right in front of him, it was darker, more frightening than it seemed on the HoloNews.

Two flanked Revan: High Jedi Generals, Revanchist Malak the Indomitable, dressed in tight, deep red, the cadet grey tattoos on his skull almost as iconic as his leader's mask, and Revanchist Surik the Impavid, clad in ornate, ceremonial armour that made her diminutive figure seem somehow formidable. Behind them in a line stood eight or nine other prominent members of the Revanchist, in jet black armour and Jedi robes, all matching bar small modifications they had made for personal preference and comfort. Though never had he seen them in person, Jaq recognised almost all the Jedi standing there. Cale Berkona, Arren Kae, Cariaga Sin. _The Constant, The Quoia, the Vehementi Sole._

The thrum of voices dissipated, as each man and woman stood alert, saluting Revan and his followers.

"At ease," said Revan, and the soft echoes bounced around the room, fabric brushing fabric, shoulders dropping, "It is a great honour to stand before you all."

The pregnant pause was filled by an excited soldier that whooped loudly and clapped. That symbolic mask, dark and frightening, concealed an amused smile, and Revan continued in a voice that was deep and commanding.

"You were not called here by mere chance. We have spent many taxing weeks, pouring through service records, carefully choosing your names from the millions of Republic soldiers underneath our command. Some of you are here for your consistent displays of skill. Others, for your renowned loyalty to our glorious Republic. Others still, for acts of heroism over the course of our many harrowing encounters with the Mandalorians. It is because of your selfless contributions that the war has marched forward in our favour, and for that, myself and my fellow Jedi would like to thank you all."

At that, the throng of Jedi bowed deeply in unison. The unexpected display of respect by their superiors elicited a heavy, enthusiastic applause from the assembly. Jaq raised his thumb and index finger to his lips and made a strident, high-pitched whistle, before joining without hesitation in the clapping. It was a thunderous sound, almost deafening, and when it failed to die down, Revan raised his hand to silence them.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the matter at hand," Revan stopped to wait for the last straggling claps to cease, "Though the services rendered by all members of the Republic has been exemplary, the need has arisen to form a special task service, to act when the Revanchist cannot, to form a left hand to complement our right, and we have brought you all here today to request for this project your skills, your loyalty, your heroism. Serving under the Revanchist will be difficult. There will be extensive training required. But you will receive many rewards for your efforts, both material and spiritual."

A hush blanketed the audience, as collective excited shock rippled through them. They did not need to see his face to feel the pull of Revan's fierce charisma.

"Join us, and together we will usher in a new era of companionship between the Jedi and the Republic. With our own hands, we will power the wheel of Fate, and it will crush those who cannot keep pace with us," finished Revan, fist slapping palm, eliciting a renewed wave of applause. Revan, Malak and Surik stepped back to fall in line with their fellow Jedi, and another, Arren Kae, stepped forward and waited patiently for the noise to peter. Jaq noted that though she was considerably older than he and her features were severe, she possessed a pale, haunting beauty.

"Ladies and gentleman, my name is Arren Kae, and I will be personally coordinating this project. You will be split into groups of twenty four and assigned a Jedi trainer. Each group will fulfil a specific purpose, such as espionage, reconnaissance, unconventional warfare and so forth. Your trainer will go into further detail of your new positions with you later. I require you to listen closely as I announce your names," Kae stopped here to remove a datapad from her robes. "The first group is to be lead by Cariaga Sin. When I have finished, please leave in an orderly fashion with Revanchist Sin, and she will lead you to a private room where you will be able to discuss with her your questions and concerns."

Kae cleared her throat and began to list names, but Jaq did not hear his in that first lot. Two more groups left, and then Kae announced the next group would be led by a Jedi called Rhyssa Sularen. He did not recognise her. She was a particularly tall and slender woman whose dark red-hair and even darker green eyes made Jaq's heart flip-flop a little. Still listening to the string of unfamiliar names, he studied the other Revanchist. Eventually, he came upon the female General. Jaq could not tell if she was pretty under her painted face. As though she knew he was staring, her head turned and, in a moment that would be forgotten by each of them as soon as it ended, her eyes met his. Her face was stony, and her stance exuded pride, but her eyes were warm and pensive.

"...Dalen Radiian, Silas Mattac, Jaq Randolph..." spoke Kae, and upon hearing his name, Jaq broke the General's gaze. The crowd began to part for the two dozen bodies shuffling towards the door. Jaq joined them and as they moved out into the hall, the scoundrel in him took charge, motivated by soft cascades of titian over lithely swaying feminine hips.

"Revanchist Sularen. Jaq Randolph. I uh...greatly look forward to working with you," he said, trying his best to sound charming, offering his hand to his new teacher. Her eyes flicked to his hand but she did not shake it. Instead, she raised a brow at him.

"There's always one. You're not going to give me any trouble are you, Ensign?" she said, in a coquettish tone.

"Actually, I'm only a Private," he replied.

"Not anymore," she said, smiling, "But there will be time to discuss this and..._other_ matters later. Get back in line."

"Yes, Sir," he said, grinning back at her.

Jaq Randolph fell back in step with his comrades. Joyful, he saw his future stretch out in front of him. Adventure, glory, credits, pretty girls and for once, real potential. Half the time, he just felt like a shavit-kicking, laser-brained flyboy, but today he felt important. His parents had always been disappointed in him - they'd wanted him to go into politics, like his father, or become a doctor, like his mother, but Jaq just never had it in him. Years ago, when he told them he'd taken a job on a huge transport liner, they'd reacted more angrily than ever before. He packed his bags, walked out the door, and they hadn't spoken since. It didn't bother him much these days, but briefly he wondered what they would think of him now. He returned the felt cap to his head, pinching the brim and pulling it down smugly. Blissfully, he marched down the hall and to his destiny, perfectly unaware of the painful path he had just embarked on.


	10. Contemptible squishy interior

**Chapter Ten**

**_How shall I lose the sin, yet keep the sense, and love the offender, yet detest the offence?  
Unequal task! A passion to resign, for hearts so touch'd, so pierc'd, so lost as mine._**

A single pale blue eye watched the glowing trail of her spot luma slide over scaly skin.

"What do you know about men, Mira?"

Feminine fingers squeezed the trigger and, with a strangled crack, bolt met boma, barely a whimper escaping from the poor creature before it succumbed to the gaping wound Meetra had inflicted.

"They're easy," offered Mira, voice tight with concentration, "You just dress like I do, then when they're looking down to check you out, you can smash them on the base of the skull, or deliver an uppercut that knocks them flat."

A deafening crack rang out and another boma collapsed as Mira took her shot.

An hour or two behind them slept the _Ebon Hawk_, buried in the lush embrace of Dxun's jungle, where they had crash landed after an unprovoked attack, ordered by a rather unfriendly gent who had smugly introduced himself as Colonel Tobin. The sticky heat of Dxun was exhausting, and it had quickly become apparent that melee combat was not a viable option for dealing with the vast array of hostile creatures lurking among the fronds and shadows. Instead, Meetra, Mira and the recently-reactivated HK-47 were perched on a rocky outcrop, slowly clearing a path to explore the valley below.

Meetra lowered her rifle from its perch, and with her palm wiped the beads of sweat gathering on her temple.

"I was actually asking about...you know. Love," she said, almost grimacing.

"If you really want a man to love you...you jab him with a Bothan stunner, then while he's screaming in pain, slap on some force cuffs and starve him two or three days until he's open to suggestion."

"I'm not sure that would help in my situation," replied Meetra with a despondent sigh.

"Oh, sorry, I thought we were talking about Atton," said Mira, smirking.

"No! Atton and I...we're not...we aren't a.._thing._ I didn't mean..." stammered Meetra, foolishly having thought her line of questioning was a little more esoteric. Her cheeks blossomed with a blush so deep it was almost purple.

"Criticism: though your handling of a rifle suggests the respectable metal exterior of a droid, the dilation of your facial blood vessels exposes your contemptible squishy interior, Master. Fact: It is disgusting," interjected HK. Mira rolled her eyes and tossed a scowl at the droid.

"Did we have to bring him? He's so creepy," she whined.

"He's better with a sniper rifle than most of us, though," shrugged Meetra, recovering rapidly.

"Correction: on average, my accuracy is at least thirty-two-point-seven-seven-five percent higher than even the best from your shabby collection of meatbags, Master. Additional observation: unlike the three inferior droids you also travel with, my ratio of lethal to non-lethal shots is _outstanding._"

"Can't you shut him off?"

"Alternative suggestion: let me deactivate the red-headed meatbag, instead, Master."

"That's enough," replied Meetra severely as Mira's face darkened. "Forget I said anything. Let's just...focus."

As the three continued to snipe in awkward silence, the jungle crooned an almost melodic song, of insectile chirps and avian trills and calls, that settled around them and grew seemingly louder in the absence of conversation. Meetra's scope slowly panned but her eyes were unfocused. She was loathed to be on Dxun, but refused to acknowledge why, even to herself. The air was wet and heavy with the scent of soil, but to Meetra this place smelt only of blood and sex and hate. If someone asked her, directly, what she had done here during the war, the only answer she could honestly give would be to say she had committed atrocities, the deepest of violations and crimes. In the years since the Council had turned her away, she had cleaned her wounds with ignorance. She had allowed her brightest memories to fade, so their shine no longer stung her eyes. In truth, even now, she still struggled to understand why it was her undertaking this mission to reunite the Jedi, why it was her responsibility to defeat the Sith. She felt detached from the rest of the galaxy, as if she sat alone, separated from it. Irrelevant. Neglected. Forgotten. And Meetra believed in the Force, even now, even after it had abandoned her, and she trusted that it had brought her here intentionally, but she could not understand why.

She had tried to ignore her feelings for Atton, but they did exist, and they were strong. Sometimes she wanted him to touch her and dominate her and make her scream his name so badly that it felt like a kind of madness. But she could not allow it to happen. In her younger years, she had been tempestuous, erratic and far too emotional. She had spent so many years trying to smooth those wrinkles from her personality, but on Nar Shaddaa, only hours into indulging her desires, she had found herself overwhelmed by anger. She was frightened of what Atton could potentially awaken within her. She was afraid of what damage she might do to him, she was afraid of the way of the Jedi being lost forever on her watch, and she was afraid for herself. Dxun was a displeasure, but a timely reminder of just how cruel and selfish her true nature her could be.

Her eyes came back into focus, but found nothing left to shoot. Just as she decided it may be time to continue on, she heard the jingle of her comlink. She knew immediately it was Atton. She had done little to ease the hostility before leaving, so she hadn't expected it, but she could tell Atton was anxious to gain her forgiveness. He had been calling her comlink every half hour to give her titbits of advice. He'd already called about Colonel Tobin, the state of the _Ebon Hawk_, to offer tips to circumvent Mandalorian camouflage and to provide random trivia about Dxun's food chain. These kinds of calls from Atton weren't unusual, but were rarely so pointless and frequent. He hadn't kept such close tabs on her since Peragus, and it was plain to Meetra that he was trying to assess the damage done.

"Atton," she said as she pressed the tiny button on her earpiece, "What is it?"

"Just calling to check if you're regretting taking the two homicidal redheads instead of me," chimed Atton's static-ridden voice in her ear.

Meetra rolled her eyes as it became clear Atton was scraping the bottom of the barrel of excuses to talk to her. The eye roll was partially for herself, too, because it was unreasonably pleasant to hear his voice. Meetra caught Mira sneaking a sly glance.

"Is that all?" said Meetra, sounding strict. She wasn't really mad at Atton so much as herself, and in the hours since they landed her shock over his actions had dissipated. Still, some shameful part of her was enjoying making him work for her attention. Not to mention, she really was quite embarrassed by her 'contemptible squishy interior' and did not wish to make Mira or HK privy to any gooey exchange of apologies between her and Atton. She spotted something in the distance, and raised her rifle again.

"The _Hawk_'s still a mess. I have to take down the sensors, so I won't be able to contact you for a while," replied Atton, dutifully ignoring Meetra's rebuff.

"Oh, I'm _crushed,_" said Meetra, sarcastically.

"Thought you might be," said Atton, the rejection starting to show in his voice, despite his best efforts.

"Okay, well," started Meetra, briskly, "Talk la - "

"Meetra," interrupted Atton, suddenly stern.

"What is it?"

"About before..."

Kilometres away, Atton jumped as his attempted apology was cut short by Meetra shooting dead another boma, the boom reverberating unpleasantly loud through the comlink and blasting his ear with screeching feedback.

"Not the time, Atton."

"But..."

"Everything's astral. I'm not mad. We'll talk about it later," she said, disconnecting before he had a chance to reply. She stood and surveyed the valley, again.

"I think we're clear now, let's move on," ordered Meetra, picking up the sweaty robe that she had discarded earlier to abate the heat, and slinging it over her shoulder. Carefully she slid down the muddy slope, followed by her companions. After a summary dusting, they resumed their northward trek. Eventually, Mira spoke.

"You want my advice, Meetra?"

Meetra tossed her a raised eyebrow, but remained silent.

"Atton's the kind of guy who can barely tell the difference between loving something and hating it. You should, you know, _calibrate his Deece_ before he gets confused and shoots you with it," said Mira. Her words were casual and borderline crass, but they made Meetra uncomfortable.

It never seemed to matter how much of his soul she managed to coax Atton into baring, he remained a mystery. His way of relating stories was slippery, allowing lots of room for half-truths and white lies. When she thought about it, she had to admit she barely knew him at all. Didn't know where he was from, if he had any family, never found out what he was doing on Peragus. Only once had she trusted someone so implicitly while so deeply fearing their volatility. She had stood at this precipice before, and fallen long and far, and been left broken by the drop. Her head spun momentarily from the strange clash between her history and her present. She thought to herself then that the Force was cruel, pressing this upon her, here of all places. Mira and HK were bickering but Meetra couldn't concentrate, couldn't hear them. Distracted, she rubbed the dip between her breasts and felt the bite of the boot-shaped bruise Atton had left there. Something squirmed uncomfortably inside her, and she realised, fearfully, as though she had made a grave mistake, that she loved Atton.


	11. Meetra vs Mandalore

**Chapter Eleven**

_**Suppressed grief suffocates, it rages within the breast, and is forced to multiply its strength. **_

Meetra rolled her shoulders, every muscle in her body tight. She took careful sideways steps, careful not to let her feet leave the Battle Circle. Though she did not want to, she was preparing herself to duel a Mandalorian named Davrel. Another attempt to win favour with his people.

She did not appreciate being forced to jump through hoops by Mandalorians, but she had learnt a thing or two since she had last danced with them. She knew it was the only way to get what she wanted, and the only way to get to Onderon to find Kavar. At least this Mandalore, unlike the last she had known, seemed reasonable and level-headed and willing to negotiate. Back and forth through the cloying, sweaty jungle she had trudged, performing small deeds to gain their respect. Playing lackey seemed to be mostly all she did, these days, with progress occasionally punctuating the monotony. She did enjoy assisting others where she could, and she had whole-heartedly meant it when she told Kreia that eschewing charity was a lesson she refused to learn because she did not believe in it. But Dxun seemed intent on beating her over the head with bad memories, and her relationship with Atton remained sour, and the whole situation left her feeling ill-tempered.

She would normally have refused to fight at all, and insisted instead on performing some other task, but then the Battlemaster had tried to impress upon her that unless she used her 'vaunted powers', she would be unlikely to beat even the lowliest of Mandalorians. The simple comment had kicked up a bitterness inside her, for she almost felt as though the Force had betrayed her in its absence, and she did not like the assertion that she needed it. She did not divulge this, however. Rather, she had carefully folded it and tucked it away in an attempt to be diplomatic. But she had accepted the challenge, not to prove anything to them because she cared little of their opinion, but to prove something to herself.

Looking at Davrel, she could not help but think that the conditions of their fight were not exactly fair. She was a small woman, wearing little more than a tunic, leggings and soft leather boots. Davrel was much taller and broader than she, and dressed in full armour made of durasteel. How she was supposed to fist-fight the man without breaking her knuckles she was not sure. She dodged his swings, but one hit her jaw hard and she tasted blood. She spat on the ground. Saliva striped by crimson. Filled with a quiet rage, she studied Davrel's metal face.

_Meetra tasted dirt. Layer upon layer of durasteel and velvet and Dxun's steamy heat proved too much for her to handle, and she had fainted. It was late at night, and she was alone, thankfully, her embarrassing spell hidden by the thin, fabric walls of her tent. Instead of standing, she just laid there, because the soil was cool against her cheek and she felt utterly deflated. She had eagerly sent wave after wave on men against impossible odds, and almost none of them had survived. She did not care this morning, but tonight she felt ill and crushed by guilt. She cried like the pathetic wretch she was and her tears made muddy smears over her white and red face._

Meetra caught Davrel's fist, and drove her forearm down against his. His balance was thrown, and she turned him around. She saw a weak spot in his armour and kneed him hard in the spine. Thrown again, Meetra pushed Davrel and, with his belly flat on the ground, she used all her weight to hold him down. She slammed his face against the sand until he could take no more and he was bested.

Her next challenger was Kex. They circled one another, and she saw the wisdom in their masks. It was not physical protection. Fighting someone without being able to look them in the eye was intensely difficult. The hilt in her hand was warm and sweaty but she squeezed it tightly and the blade caught the sunlight. She squinted. Kex lunged at her, and she side-stepped him. Another swing, another miss, and it became apparent rather quickly that Kex would give her little trouble. His moves were clumsy. She could spot his errors immediately – he used too much force, too much of his strength, without ever waiting for a proper opening. In the time it took him to throw his whole weight into a swing, she had already moved. She was merely parrying, but he was struggling to keep up.

_They stood in knee-deep water. Fetid corpses bobbed casually, and Meetra was thankful that most of them were face down. She had never seen anything like this, and hoped she never would again. She stood on what felt like a hand, and its wrist snapped beneath her foot. She squealed and slipped her hand in Alek's, who squeezed it, then let go. Instead, he placed the same hand on her shoulder, and they continued moving forward. Meetra watched Cariaga kneel until the water engulfed her chest. Slowly, Cariaga turned over the corpse of a small child and she and Revan exchanged distraught glances. Duqua called to Revan, that one of the bodies was not from Cathar, but was Mandalorian, and Revan waded through the filth to inspect. It was a woman, and Revan touched the red and black mask she wore, that would become his face in months to come, and his eyes grew dark._

Her body dipped in a fluid motion below Kex's outstretched sword. She wove behind him, so quick he barely had time to notice she was gone. With a hard, vicious swing to the back of his neck, he was bested.

Her next challenger was Tegren. Bare fists again. Her hands were purple and swollen from the smooth hardness of Davrel's armour, but her brow was lowered, dark and determined. He jabbed, she hopped back. She jabbed, he hopped back. He took a fistful of her hair and boxed her face and she struggled to push him off. Her elbow connected with his neck and he stumbled. She took steps backwards, then launched herself at him, knee crashing into his chest.

_The female Jedi heard a cry and followed it. She found its source – a baby cradled in the arms of a woman whose lips were blue and arms were mottled red and purple. She rushed, landing on her knees, desperate to check the woman's pulse. It was pointless though, for the woman had clearly been dead for a few good days. Her eyes were open and milky and colourless. Her lips were parted by her bloated tongue. There was a dry silvery slick trailing from her mouth across her chin, and the series of puncture wounds down her forearms that told in no uncertain terms that she had died from a spice overdose. The baby held by the corpse was deeply distressed, and the only thing that stopped the female Jedi from turning away in horror._

She held Tegren in a choke hold until his face began to turn blue and the Mandalorians around the ring were shouting at her to stop. She released him, and he was bested.

Her next challenger was Kelborn. Swords, again. He had more experience than her previous opponents, and finally she felt 'challenger' was an appropriate name. The match dragged. Five minutes, ten minutes, twenty. She held the hilt with both hands. He had strength and speed. _Like Revan and Malak_, she allowed herself to think, but only for a second. She made a move too sudden and her foot slipped in the sand. Kelborn's blade whipped across her stomach and it stung. She did not look down, but knew her tunic was torn and she was bleeding. It was not a deep wound, however, and she was not about to give ground to anyone. Especially not a Mandalorian.

_Meetra pulled the thick metal mask from his face and stared at glassy eyes. She had hoped to see a monster, but he was just a man, nothing more. An emptiness rolled around inside her that made her feel as though she was going to be sick. One of the other Revanchist from Coruscant she did not know yet knelt beside her and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder._

_"What troubles you, Padawan?" she asked. Meetra glanced. The woman was pure Jedi, with dark red hair that Meetra envied. She was a friend of Alek's, which Meetra envied even more._

_"I've never killed a man before," said Meetra, looking down again. Her voice was quiet and filled with shame._

_"There is no death, youngling. All men live on through the Force."_

_"Well, he looks pretty dead from where I'm standing," said Meetra, grimly._

She swiped at his neck, and he leant back. He swiped at her face and she ducked. As he pulled his arm back to swing at her again, she reached out and tore away his mask, slamming the pommel of her sword against his mouth as it ascended. His front teeth were shattered, his jaw broken and he was bested.

Her last challenger was Bralor.

She refused weapons and refused the Force, for she neither wanted nor needed them.

Her sternum ached from where Atton had crushed her.

The left side of her face throbbed from where Davrel had hit her.

Her shoulder felt weak where Kex's blade had struck her.

Her nose bled where Tegren's fist had landed.

There was a cold snip of breeze against blood across her flank where Kelborn had slashed her.

And there was another ache, the worst of all, the location of which slid away each time she tried to pinpoint it. That one was Revan's doing, and it had teased her for years. These other pains were transient, but the last was more scar than wound and had already faded as much as it ever could long ago. In Meetra's mind, the sun set. Day became night as she caught Bralor's foot and pulled it hard, sending him crashing to his back.

_She tore the mask off and screamed in his face, and the fact that his life was hers to take was exhilarating in a way she had never known. She saw fear in his eyes and to her it felt like water across a parched tongue. Her knees dug into his shoulders and his limbs were pinned by her Force. He had nothing that could match her power and instead of killing him in an efficient way, she drove the short blade in her hand through his eye and watched his pathetic, worthless life languish in front of her. When she grew bored, she pressed the heated beam of her lightsaber through his neck and his desperate pleas ceased._

When the sun inside Meetra rose again, Bralor's face was a mess of blood and broken cartilage, and he was bested. Sweaty and bloody, Meetra stumbled from the ring. A gust of wind swept up dust from the ground and the dry, grainy particles slipped inside her open mouth and clung to her teeth and tongue. She shook her head and spat, and with the dirt sailed to the ground years of compounded hate. She was not interested in the bitter, begrudging congratulations of the Mandalorians, but instead made her way quickly back to Mandalore. She stared at him, and could tell, even through his mask, that his eyes met hers. He removed his glove and extended his hand, and with her own, swollen and bloody, shook it.


	12. Advice from Visas

**Chapter Twelve**

_**We should not judge people by their peak of excellence; but by the distance they have travelled from the point where they started.**_

A stubborn lock of hair flopped in Atton's eyes, made limp by the sweat gathering on his brow. He wiped it away, without thinking, and then remembered his hands were covered in thick, black grease. He exhaled loudly, and tapped his fist against the_ Ebon Hawk's_ hull. They were making little progress with the repairs. Bao-Dur had not been wrong when he raised concerns that they would not have the materials on hand to make the necessary repairs. But there Atton was, kneeling in the grass, hands deep in one of the _Ebon Hawk_'s exterior compartments, stubbornly trying to carry on without the requisite parts.

No one seemed particularly interested in talking to him after what he had done to Meetra. Except for Kreia, perhaps, but he'd sooner crawl into the belly of a sarlacc than spend time in her company. Bao-Dur had set out this morning again to search for parts, and Mical had offered to come with him, which meant Atton absolutely had to stay put. He'd noticed a look in Mical's eye the last few days. He wanted to lecture Atton. He wanted to try giving Atton sage, sanctimonious advice. He probably believed it would endear him to Meetra, and Atton would have none of it. He felt a little bad for hating Mical sometimes, because Mical was so much younger and Meetra clearly didn't have any romantic interest in him. At least, Atton sometimes caught Meetra giving him these intense stares with slightly parted, slightly pouted lips, that could be, in his opinion, a product of nothing but lust. And not once had he ever seen her look at Mical in that way.

Still, Mical was handsome in a conventional kind of way that Atton was not. He was taller, more muscular, smarter, always seemed to understand what Meetra was talking about during training. His past was clearly not as tainted as Atton's, which had to add to his appeal, as well. Atton had a competitive streak that was born more of insecurity than desire to win, and Mical seemed to inspire that competitiveness more than any of the others. Atton felt grim as he remembered how Meetra had used this against him just the other day. There had been a time during their travels, where it was almost exclusively just him and Meetra. For a number of reasons, he had not always appreciated that at the time. But now her group of companions had grown larger, and her time for him had grown smaller, and he was beginning to miss the simplicity.

Atton had been in love before, long ago. It had ended painfully. Following that loss, he had lived in a kind of solitude. He'd been with more women than he could remember between then and now, but there had never been an intimacy like there had been with that one woman, the woman he'd been in love with. It wasn't until he fell for Meetra that he realised how much he missed it. Days turned into weeks, and each passing moment he craved it more. He wanted to touch her, certainly, but he wanted to show her affection, as well. He wanted to be close to her, to share with her the kind of unbearably intoxicating proximity that splays the mind and renders words inadequate. He wanted her to know how devastatingly gorgeous he found her, and he wanted her to trust him enough to believe she was every bit as beautiful as he described. But the situation was complex and excruciating to navigate. In so many ways, he hated Meetra, and everything she stood for. Sometimes he did want to hurt her, just as badly as he wanted to hold her. The other day had been the first time he had laid a finger on her like that, and nothing about it had felt good. She was on Onderon, now and that made him feel even worse, because she'd left without speaking to him again.

He threw his sonic wrench, slick with oil, on the grass and shook his head. He couldn't concentrate, and it seemed pointless anyway. With Meetra having found alternate passage to Iziz, there was no need to rush any more. His lip curled, as he thought with regret that he should have bought another bottle of whiskey before leaving Nar Shaddaa.

"Atton," came a voice, female and only a little familiar because it rarely spoke his name.

Atton turned his head and Visas stood there, presumably staring at him though it was hard to tell. Like Meetra and unlike Atton, she was just short enough to stand under the _Ebon Hawk_ without needing to stoop. He searched his mind and could not remember a time before now when he had been alone with Visas. She was not particularly talkative, and Atton realised then that he had something in common with her. She mostly spoke to Meetra and no one else, just like him.

"What do you want?" he asked, narrowing his eyes.

Visas stood still for a moment, then tilted her head. She took a step closer. "I sense that you would benefit from discourse. I would like to offer my ear."

Atton had expected her to tell him there was something else wrong with the useless rusting hunk of durasteel they called a ship, and so surprised was he by this turn of events, he had to scoff. "Yeah, because chit chat with a Sith is what I really need right now."

"You have walked hand in hand with Sith before, have you not?" asked Visas. Her voice was kind but there was something sly in it and a small smile played at the corner of her mouth.

Atton looked away, letting his brow drop. "And where did you hear that?"

Visas made a small hum, as though she was thinking of the right way to word her response. She sat in the grass and crossed her legs. Atton was thankful she maintained a respectful distance, but he still did not want to talk to her.

"I saw it," Visas said, after a long pause.

"Last time I checked," said Atton, picking up his sonic wrench and pointing it at her, before returning his attention back to the _Ebon Hawk_, "You're blind. How do you see anything?"

"I just look, and see in full true colour," replied Visas.

Atton's eyes flicked towards her, though he did not move his head. She plucked a blade of grass and slowly wrapped it around her finger.

"Yeah, well, so do I. Big deal," dismissed Atton.

"No, you don't understand. You see the colours that are shown to you. I see the colours that people try to hide," explained Visas. She spoke clearly, but she sounded as though she was struggling to convey her meaning to Atton. She was right.

Atton grimaced, never a fan of cryptic Jedi speak. "What does that even mean?"

"You cannot hide anything from the Force, Atton. And the Force is all I see, so you cannot hide anything from me, either," she replied. The same words from Kreia might have sounded like a threat to Atton, but Visas seemed to be merely making an observation. She was non-confrontational, Atton admitted to himself.

"Good thing I wasn't trying to, then," he muttered. There was an electric crack, and a tiny shower of sparks rained down on Atton's head. He ducked and cursed, then exhaled in frustration. He laid back in grass, then, staring up at the _Ebon Hawk's_ belly. Visas was quiet, and it gave Atton an opportunity to wonder how they would ever get the _Hawk_ back in the air.

"You wished to harm her," stated Visas, finally. "Why?"

Atton, still laying in the grass, looked over at her with a scowl. "Maybe you need to get your existential eyes checked, Miraluka, because you're wrong."

"You're defensive because it is true," observed Visas. She looked pleased with herself momentarily, then it faded. "But I sense the situation is more complicated than that. You care for the Exile."

"No! I just..." Atton broke off. He rubbed his face, then rolled his eyes, having forgotten about the engine grease, again. He pulled himself up, and tossed a lazy, dismissive hand at Visas. "Look, what do you really want?"

"Your pain is loud, and...interrupting my meditation," said Visas, shifting her weight.

"Well, I'm _so_ sorry," drawled Atton, voice thick with sarcasm. He began to feel angry then, but the true source of his irritation was obscured from him, so he simply turned it on Visas. "Look, I don't need a lecture from you or the old witch or Blondie or anyone else, got it? I just want to concentrate on fixing this."

Visas gave a curt nod, and stood. She began to walk away, for which Atton was grateful. He gave an angry grunt and wiped his hands down the front of his shirt, then picked up the wrench again.

"Atton, may I share something with you?" asked Visas, turning back.

Atton stared at her for a moment. "If you make it quick," he said, through gritted teeth.

"Before I met the Exile, I did not have a strong sense of...who I sincerely was," she said. She turned and straightened her spine, and though Atton could not truly know, he was certain she was staring right at him. She placed a hand on her hip. "I did not understand that my choices are my own, and that I am responsible for everything I do. I thought my life was something thrust upon me. I thought of myself as a slave to my Master."

"I said_ quick_," deflected Atton, looking down at the ground.

Visas, unperturbed, gave a gentle pause. She smiled again. "I could drag from you the underlying root of this misery, but I will not intrude. I only wanted to acknowledge it, and remind you that you are no different to the rest of us. There is not one among us that does not carry a burden they wish to lighten. Even the Exile struggles with her choices and is tempted by the darkness. She bears wounds that lie deeper than any blade could reach. I think, maybe, you know what that feels like. She would understand, if you let her. It may not seem like it, but if you seek redemption, you are in the right company. I have seen her, more than you can see. You should trust her. She is worthy of it."

Atton's gaze remained fixed on the ground. He watched an insect climb along a blade of grass. As weak as he knew it to be, it did not bend or sag beneath the weight. He closed his eyes, and listened to the gentle pitter pat of the misty rain against the top of the hull. He inhaled and his nose filled with the deliciously organic scent of damp soil.

"Is that all?" he asked, trying to sound unaffected by her words.

"That's all," confirmed Visas.

"Well, thanks," murmured Atton.

"You are welcome, Atton," said Visas.

Atton opened his eyes and looked at her. She gave another subtle nod, then turned and sauntered back towards the front of the ship, to the lowered ramp. Atton breathed through tightly closed teeth, determined to suffocate any thoughts and feelings that might be tempted to stir by Visas' words. After a moment of sitting there, Atton stood and marched after Visas, though he was not following her. He stamped up the ramp, and navigated his way to Meetra's room. He felt not a mote of guilt for the intrusion, as he knelt once again at the footlocker at the end of her bed. He opened it, and sifted through her things. He pulled out the giant red, black and gold headdress. He held it up, drawing it close to his face, as his eyes flicked over it. He touched its backing, trying to imagine the soft skin of her face touching this revolting item of clothing. He did not notice, but his hands closed tight where he held it, and broke the spines of several of the large feathers mounted in it. He looked until he too disgusted to gaze upon it a second longer, then shoved the cursed thing back in the locker and stormed from the room, too overwhelmed to hide evidence of his visit.


	13. Jaq's first time

**Chapter Thirteen**

**_No man chooses evil because it is evil; he only mistakes it for happiness, the good he seeks. _**

Jaq was only twenty-four.

The world was inside out.

Arren Kae was dead.

Rhyssa Sularen was dead.

Millions of Republic soldiers were dead.

Meetra Surik was a coward and deserter. A traitor.

In the wake of Malachor, Revan and Malak had declared their allegiance to the Sith, and Jaq, like so many others, had followed them, caught like flotsam in their hypnotic gravity well.

He wasn't a pilot, not anymore.

As is true of many things, the first time was the hardest. The capture wasn't his handiwork; another had taken care of that. He'd only been responsible for the interrogation. To prevent the Jedi mounting a rescue mission, he'd taken his victim aboard the light freighter he'd been gifted by the Revanchist and travelled far from Republic space to the Outer Rim. Hours became days, as they drifted aimlessly through hyperspace.

Jedi were tricky, and he didn't dare leave that damn twi'lek alone. So, Jaq patiently waited it out, experimenting to find just the right encouragement to make his captive talk.

Sometimes they would speak earnestly with each other, but the conversations would eventually go round in circles and always ended the same. One of them was wrong, but no consensus could be reached. Jaq had brought water, once, and the twi'lek had spat it back in his face. He did not offer again, and it was only a matter of time before the Jedi begged. Jaq ignored his pleas, likening it to the way the Jedi had abandoned the Republic.

Sometimes he would sit on the floor in front of the Jedi and pull out his deck of pazaak cards. He'd pretend to play a match with the twi'lek, choosing his cards for him and always making sure he lost. His voice was as smug and condescending as he could muster for this activity. It was pointless, and petty, and the way the Jedi's face would twitch with irritation made Jaq's heart jump.

The Jedi refused to give up any information, and Jaq almost admired that. As days passed, he pushed harder. He beat the Jedi until his face was swollen and bruised. He made up a little game, where every time the Jedi succumbed to exhaustion and fell asleep, he would lose a finger. To make it more lively, Jaq would use the Jedi's own lightsaber. Two days and four fingers gone, Jaq grew bored of this and crushed the hilt in a vice clamped to the cargo hold's workbench. The twi'lek's shiny veneer of bravery hadn't cracked before that, but as shards of light blue crystal spilled onto the floor, he shed a salty, hopeless tear. It seemed so funny to Jaq, that this fool of a man in front of him cared more about his weapon than the fingers needed to wield it, and he laughed long and hollow.

Inspired, Jaq dragged the Jedi and the chair he was bound to over to the vice. He closed the twi'lek's delicate lekku between the solid metallic panels. The ensuing screams of pain skidded over Jaq's steel heart like rain against glass. Sith challenged Jedi. Jaq would stop if he would talk. But the Jedi was stronger than that.

Jaq tightened the vice, millimetre by millimetre, until the twi'lek's words of defiance began to slur. Jaq lifted up the man's chin and took the slender, silver flash light he kept in his back pocket. The beam shone through the darkness, illuminating the Jedi's face. One pupil had dilated far larger than the other, a clot of blood forming behind the iris. Deep purple eyelids fluttered in pain as consciousness slipped from the man's grasp, and Jaq knew he had gone too far to gain anything useful. All that effort, wasted.

A time would come, many years in the future, when he would call himself by another name, and he would feel a regret as deep as the canyons of Korriban for what he did next. But at this moment, he only felt anger. He was beyond traumatised by Malachor V, and it was only Revan that had volunteered any kind of solace. Revenge, Revan had said, would make sense of his pain. Jaq's humanity had withered in the blazing summer heat of Revan's influence, and became tinder that was swallowed and consumed by rage's fierce flame. He worked the handle of the vice frantically, trying to quell the lurid heat within him. Purple skin began to split and tear. The twi'lek seized, then died. He did not make a sound.

Echoes of the Force retreating from the man's body moved through Jaq like cool, forgiving rain against his blistered, scorched innards. It washed away the hot ash clinging to his lungs and let him breathe again. Such a heavenly euphoria Jaq had never felt, but it faded quickly and left him emptier than he was before.

His eyes slid over the mangled body in front of him, and anger started to itch his throat again. Roughly he gathered what damaged fragments of lightsaber he could find and buried them deep in the pockets of the Jedi's robe. He released the body from its binds, then pulled it over his shoulder, heavy and limp. He carried the broken mass to the airlock, and dropped the body roughly on the floor, before stepping back and slamming the release desperately, several times more than necessary. A moment later, Jaq was alone again; the Jedi, nameless and lost forever to the void.

Jaq's mind raced, obsessed. He began to feel a tiny seed sprout inside of him, planted by Revan, nourished by the Force. Anguish overtook him, and he slid to the floor and held his head in his bloody hands, feeling grief not for the actions he had committed, but for the actions he knew he would commit, just to chase down and straddle that brief elation once more.


	14. Reunion

**Chapter Fourteen**

_**After voluntary exertions on the part of our people to which the history of the world furnishes no parallel, is the old root of bitterness still to remain in the ground, to sprout and bear fruit in the future as it has borne fruit in the past?**_

Having grown up with the beautiful and boring plains of Dantooine, Meetra loved almost any city. Iziz, however, was dusty and crowded, and had a foul smell from the boma-filled cages that lined the streets. It wasn't necessarily that which bothered her though. The air was filled with something desperate, and there was not a soul alive here that did not seem oppressed. Everywhere she turned, she saw people in need of help, but her resources were too few, too limited to help them all. The need she felt from these people was almost overwhelming, and she found something about this place more offensive than Nar Shaddaa. There it had seemed the people struggled, but most citizens of Iziz seemed to have no struggle left in them. The ones that did were quickly silenced, either by the law or by each other. It was a depressing place, and she felt uneasy walking these streets.

Atton still weighed heavily on her mind, and she never did find the time to discuss his little spat. She missed him, more than she knew she should. She was accompanied by Mandalore, and he was interesting though at times conversation with him was difficult. She seemed to have gained enough of his respect for him to disclose his real name, Canderous, to her, but she felt uncomfortable using it, and continued to address him as Mandalore. She was used to Atton finding her bad jokes funny, and her expressions sweet, and it felt a little strange to be alone with someone that viewed her so severely. There was a small undercurrent of joy there, though, as she allowed herself to acknowledge that, in comparison, Atton was clearly fond of her.

Meetra and Mandalore were on their way to a cantina on the far side of town to meet with Kavar. She sifted through her pockets, and found a few spare coins to pass a beggar as they walked by, and after spending so much time amongst Atton and Kreia, she expected Mandalore to criticise her. He seemed apathetic, however, and remained silent. Meetra glanced sideways at Mandalore, hoping it would encourage a topic of conversation to come to mind, but she had nothing. She folded her arms, and they continued to walk.

Something stirred in Meetra's stomach, and she realised she was afraid. She had not expected to see Atris, so she had no time to grow nervous. Zez-Kai she barely knew and her biggest concern had been the confusion that was trying to find him. She had always hated Vrook and she was not nervous so much as loathed to see him again, and she'd been every bit as cold and strict with him as she'd always wanted to be as a Padawan. She still had not seen Vash, but Vash had always been kind to her, even when Meetra returned in disgrace after the war and Meetra was looking forward to seeing her. But Kavar. Meetra was afraid of Kavar.

Meetra had never been knighted. Indeed, she had never even officially had a Master. Vima Sunrider began to teach her when she was very young, but she never took Meetra off-world with her. One day, when Meetra was ten, Vima came to her and said she could no longer instruct her, and that was the end of that. The reason why alluded Meetra even now, though the pain of her abandonment did not. She waited, languished, hoping for someone to take her under their wing. She grew jealous of the others, and felt humiliated by taking general lessons with the younger children rather than receiving the one-on-one tutelage to which others her age were already privy. When she was thirteen and Kavar took an interest in her, it felt...Meetra struggled to describe exactly how it felt. She supposed, perhaps, that it felt like being loved. And when she returned, broken and lost, he treated her with revulsion. The only reason that had not broken her heart was that it had already been as broken as it could possibly be. Meetra bit down, then looked at Mandalore again.

"So...Do you have a wife or a...partner or anything?" she asked, trying to distract herself.

"No," said Mandalore.

"Children?"

"No."

Meetra nodded, her neck stiff, and looked ahead again. It was late, and the sky was dark but littered with stars. She saw Dxun, and another moon. It was small and blue. She thought it might be Evus, but could not say for sure. She wondered what Atton was doing, and figured he was probably arguing or annoying someone. She smiled at the thought. Meetra and Mandalore ascended the shallow stone steps up the cantina, and patrons that were considerably better dressed than she gave her condescending glances as they casually smoked by the door. They entered to find the building was uncomfortably full. They pushed into the crowd, shoulder to shoulder with people of every species, scent of smoke and alcohol and desperation thick in the air.

"What did you say was the name of the Jedi you were meeting?" asked Canderous, leaning down close to Meetra's ear so she could hear him.

"Kavar," said Meetra, turning her face a little but keeping her eyes fixed forward, scanning the crowd for any sign of the man.

"Huh," said Canderous. He grabbed Meetra's elbow, then, and steered her to the bar, where he gestured to the bartender. "The famed Jedi Guardian."

"That's the one," said Meetra, exhaling hard. She peered across the bar, and saw nothing.

A Twi'lek woman, whose skin was the colour of a sunrise, stumbled into Meetra then, spilling her drink down Meetra's back. She jabbered and grabbed a napkin to pat the stain, but Meetra just hand-waved her away, too tense to graciously accept the woman's apologies. The bartender returned with two tumblers of what Meetra thought looked like rum or maybe whiskey, and she tossed a handful of credits down to pay for it. She knocked back the drink, then gestured for another. Canderous gave her a head-tilt as though he was impressed, and swallowed a good half of the liquid in his own glass.

"You know, back during the war," began Mandalore, poking his index finger on the bar, "We counted on the fact that it would be Kavar, and not Revan, to lead the Jedi against us."

"Is that so?" asked Meetra. She licked her lips, trying to determine exactly what it was she had just drunk. "I like how you dressed that insult up as a compliment. Maybe don't tell him that when he shows up."

"I wonder how we would have faired against Kavar," mused Mandalore.

"Not sure," said Meetra. "Revan was...Well, he was something, wasn't he? But a Jedi's a Jedi."

Mandalore tipped his head back and gulped the rest of his drink. He placed the glass back down, letting it slide a little. "You know, I thought Kavar was killed by Malak, during the Civil War."

Meetra bristled at the mention of Malak. "I don't know anything about that," she dismissed. She caught sight of a familiar gait then, and stood on her toes and lifted her chin to verify. "I think I see him. Do you mind if I do this alone?"

"Be my guest. There's a dancer over there and I think I have credits in my pocket with her name on them," said Mandalore with a shrug.

Meetra rolled her eyes. "Alright, just...don't go too far," she muttered, sliding off her stool. She elbowed and fought her way again, bobbing on her feet every now and then so she didn't lose sight of Kavar. When she finally arrived in front of him, she found herself dumbstruck. They looked at each other, intensely, and Meetra thought for a moment what a strange place for a reunion this was. She felt a slurry of memories and feelings and things that had long been forgotten run through her then, and she didn't know if she should slap him or hug him. Apparently, he was not as moved, because he simply looked away and sat at the table beside him.

"Meetra, hello," he said, as if it was nothing.

"Master," she said. She felt stupid then, and wished she had just called him by his name.

"You must have gone through a lot to arrange this meeting. The palace is at full battle readiness. Smuggling in a message is no small task," said Kavar, giving her an easy smile. He gestured for her to sit, and she did so.

She ground her back teeth for a second, then crossed her arms. She drummed her fingers on her elbow. "I have my ways, Kavar."

"You always did, Meetra," he said. Kavar had a tall glass, filled with what Meetra suspected was juice. He took a sip, then frowned. "I saw you enter with a Mandalorian. It would seem my former student keeps curious company."

"I have learnt, Kavar, that one can not always be choosy when friends are few and enemies are thick," she said, giving him a pointed stare.

"Strange times do lead to strange alliances, I suppose," he said, not missing her meaning but refusing to acknowledge it. He rested his forearm on the table, and looked her up and down. "Why did you contact me, Meetra?"

"There is a...situation. It concerns the Sith, and while that would ordinarily be a matter for the Order, as I'm sure you know, the Order is not exactly in a position to do anything," said Meetra, biting her lip, struggling to find a way to explain everything in a single sentence.

Kavar nodded. "And so you are...seeking out what remains?"

"Yes."

"That must be...trying. I imagine that you hold little love for the Order now," acknowledged Kavar. He spoke slowly, as if he was still mulling it over. "Even when it comes to an old friend."

"'Friend' might be a little strong," murmured Meetra, looking down.

"And there it is."

"There's what?" demanded Meetra, looking up sharply.

"I expected you would be bitter, still. You never forgave easily, Meetra. One of the many reasons you were hard to teach," he admitted, with jump of his brow that was almost apologetic. "You were brilliant, Meetra. Intelligent, fast on your feet, strong in the Force. But you didn't want to learn. Not truly. Still, I think, had you not followed Revan, you could have...become a great Jedi, in time."

Meetra felt a flare of anger, then. She did not appreciate being told what could have been, when it was so different to what had been. "Speaking of Revan," she said, hoping to steer the conversation away from her own failings, "What became of him, after I was exiled? I have heard many conflicting stories. I see no reason why I shouldn't add your recount to the confusion."

Kavar gave her an affectionate smile, then, that seemed to imply he was actually still quite fond of her. "Almost...five years ago, now, I think, Revan was captured and brought back to the lightside by a group of Jedi from Dantooine. He and Bastila Shan went on, after that, to defeat Darth Malak."

Meetra's face contorted then, though she tried to stop it. "Alek's definitely dead?"

"I believe so, yes," confirmed Kavar. He narrowed his eyes, trying to analyse why she seemed so bothered, but Meetra's face returned to normal and her distress seemed to pass as quickly as it came.

"And what, then?" she pushed, leaning forward. "What became of Revan then?"

"He and Bastila were made Masters, eventually, but they left the Order together, not long after. They married and -"

"Revan married Bastila Shan?" spat Meetra, incredulity etched on every part of her face. She noticed Kavar staring, and realised she had stood slightly. She settled herself, feeling almost embarrassed.

"Do you have some kind of qualm with Bastila, Meetra?" asked Kavar, raising an eyebrow.

Meetra almost blushed. Her jaw slacked momentarily, then she rolled her eyes. "No, she just," she stammered. "Bastila was...I mean, she was skilled, surely, but...Why would Revan want her?" she struggled. She gestured at Kavar with expectation. "You know."

"She became a great Jedi after you left, Meetra. She was strong and possessed a rare level of devotion."

"Devotion is one way to put it," said Meetra, rolling her eyes. "I always felt her strict adherence to the Code made her weak. She did not necessarily believe in it. She just did as she was told."

"That kind of opinion is one of the many reasons you were sent away in the first place, Meetra. The Code has been carefully constructed over many hundreds of years, by Jedi with much more experience than you. It is not a weakness to trust in it, and true Jedi do. The only wisdom you ever trusted came from yourself, and that earned you exactly what you deserved."

Meetra teetered for a moment, tempted to storm away, then tightly closed her hands into fists until they hurt. She released them, slowly, and let the ease of tension soothe her. "When I left, I thought I was doing the right thing. I didn't see you trying to stop me," she said, lowering an eyebrow and staring right at Kavar.

"Would you have listened if I'd tried?" countered Kavar.

Meetra sighed. "I suppose not." She tossed up a pathetic hand. She let the awkward moments drip by, then looked up again. "I came back with good intentions, Kavar. I really did. I was...I had lost the Force. I was frightened. I knew I had erred. I knew Revan had fallen. I wanted to help, and to be helped. I needed you."

"Meetra, there are things you don't understand," said Kavar, reaching across the table and touching her forearm. "It was a time of great uncertainly. We just learned that Revan was back with an armada. Every Jedi that went with him was... lost, corrupted, and as dark as their Master. And then there was you. We were frightened, as well. Of you, of what had happened to you. We didn't understand it. Whether you did or not, we were certain you had fallen. Some thought you were a spy..." Kavar trailed off and shook his head. He took his hand back and touched it to his forehead. He exhaled hard, and then looked at Meetra, his face earnest. "There's more to it than that. You deserve to know. And I want to -" Kavar stopped talking then, as he became aware of a man standing near them, giving a hollow, self-satisfied laugh. Behind the man stood a row of what looked like soldiers, blasters cocked.

Meetra rolled her eyes, perturbed by the interruption. "Tobin, I take it?"

"In orbit I thought for sure that the _Ebon Hawk_ was mine. I was certain," hissed Tobin. He clenched his fist and gently pressed it on the table, then slapped his palm on the surface and pointed at Meetra. "Only to see you slip through my fingers during the battle."

"Yeah, well, sorry about that," said Meetra, giving him a bright sarcastic smile and a shrug. "I've got a pretty damn good pilot."

"All's forgiven, because here you are! Imagine my delight to discover you were careless enough to wander down here."

"I don't like to disappoint," said Meetra, letting her smile grow wider, though inside she was uneasy. She tossed a glance at Kavar. Their eyes met, and Meetra knew he had to leave. She felt a strange sadness then, like she desperately did not want to part with him. She looked back at Tobin and rose slowly, her hand hovering at her side. Tobin watched her as though he found her quite a curiosity, and she slipped between him and the table.

"Get them, men," ordered Tobin, his face smug. He looked back over his shoulder. "Do watch your aim, though. Civilian casualties cause a mess of paperwork."

Meetra's hand shot out and each pair of eyes fixed on her turned glassy as they were stunned by her Force. She jerked her head towards Kavar, and whispered, "Go."

Kavar nodded, and pulled his hood up over his face, slipping into the crowd effortlessly. Tobin sputtered, glancing around in confusion.

"Wha – What have you done to my men?" he demanded. He jumped visibly as Mandalore's hand came down hard on his shoulder.

"Did I miss anything? Are we killing someone?" asked Mandalore, casually. He gave his rifle a shake and gripped Tobin's shoulder tighter.

It was Meetra's turn to be smug, then, and she grinned. Mandalore pulled no punches and she found him abrasive at times. But she had carefully mulled over each word he said to her, and had noticed one thing. He held no bitterness, no grudge. He was not soft in any way, but neither did he allow himself to be a slave to those who had done wrong by him. She knew, in many ways, that this was why Jedi readily forgave. Their forgiveness was not a weakness, but rather what allowed them to continue moving forward, what allowed them to be strong. Meetra knew Atton had problem after problem with Jedi, even if she did not know its original source.

She had tried to help Atton. She had tried to impress upon him that forgiveness was the only way to free himself of it, but it never sunk in. But she realised then, looking at Mandalore, that she was failing to teach Atton this because she did not practice it herself. How strange it was, she thought, that she should come face to face with her former Master and the leader of the Mandalorians, and it would be the latter that taught her something about being a Jedi. She filed these thoughts away for a more appropriate time, and looked at Tobin.

"Well, Canderous. That all depends on the Colonel, here."


	15. A cup of sereni-tea

**Chapter Fifteen**

**_The deepest feeling always shows itself in silence; not in silence, but restraint._**

Meetra hadn't been due back from Onderon for another two days. They hadn't spoken a single word to each other since she'd left without warning weeks earlier, and Atton had intended on making the long trip to the Mandalorian encampment solo to meet her, and act as escort for the long walk back. Never ending, boring days of working on the _Ebon Hawk _with little to no conversation had given him plenty of time to daydream, and having his way with her in the sticky privacy of Dxun's jungle had so constantly entered his thoughts that he felt he'd finally moved beyond needing to work up the courage, and now just simply had to try.

However, she'd shown up earlier this afternoon instead, having apparently caused such an upset in Iziz that it necessitated immediate departure. Though glad to see her ahead of schedule, he was disappointed to have his plans foiled and his built-up bravado slipped through his fingers like grains of sand. He was further disappointed to find she'd collected another stray to steal away her attention – the Mandalore, no less.

Years of fighting them left Atton wary of the Mandalorians, and he didn't think he'd be able to sleep without one eye open while one had free run of the _Ebon Hawk_. Indeed, this feeling wasn't entirely unique to Atton, but he had resigned himself to the fact that he would be the one that would say something, and it seemed futile to hope it wouldn't end in upsetting Meetra, such was his knack for always finding the most spectacularly stupid and tactless way possible to say something, that simultaneously undermined her and insulted her judgement.

Though he was growing increasingly eager just to spill his guts and declare his love for her, between the whole training debacle that was still unresolved and this new inevitable indiscretion looming over his head, Atton grew certain that all awaited him was a few more weeks of terse conversation and being ignored.

As he'd sat in the cockpit, waiting for Meetra to find some time to come pay him some attention, he had heard raised voices, and strained to listen. To his great delight, he found his desire to complain about the Mandalore's presence satiated vicariously, as normally stoic, respectful Bao-Dur went and made a fuss instead, and for once, Meetra had to break up an argument between two of her crew that did not include Atton. Though she'd been back for six hours now and barely said two words to him beyond the brief instruction to head to the next system over to refuel, the drama made Atton feel distinctly sunny, assuming that Meetra would consider him better behaved in comparison. So amicable felt Atton, that he found himself leaving cockpit and wandering around the ship. He found Bao-Dur in the galley, preparing a cup of tea, and couldn't help himself.

"Bao-Dur!" said Atton cheerfully, clapping a hand against Bao-Dur's back, who bristled in response.

"Is this important, Atton? I am too busy to talk," he said, flatly, then added, "To you."

"Yeah, hot beverages sure do require full concentration...just remember, there is no passion, there is sereni-tea," said Atton, in a syrupy tone, his elation making him indifferent to how deplorable the joke was.

"Back during the war, the General had only one rule. I suspect it still stands, Atton," started Bao-Dur darkly, keeping his eyes on his tea.

"What's that?"

"Puns get you spaced."

Atton scoffed, and started rifling through the cupboards for something to eat. Bao-Dur sighed laboriously.

"How much fragging boma jerky did Meetra come back with? Vile..." he said off-handedly, ignoring how irritated Bao-Dur seemed to be by his presence.

"What do you want, Atton?" asked Bao-Dur, finally, clearly fed up.

"Just wanted to say thank you for putting your foot in your mouth with the whole Mandalore thing. Saves me the trouble," said Atton, tearing off a piece of jerky with his canines. It was every bit as disgusting as he'd expected it to be, and he spat it out in the sink immediately, causing Bao-Dur to exhale through clenched teeth.

"I did not put my 'foot in my mouth,' Atton. I had a genuine concern, and I raised it. It was resolved. End of story. I suspect your only real reason for raising the same objections would be be to intentionally antagonise the General because you seem to find joy in being needlessly ornery and annoying."

"Whatever," Atton said, discarding the criticism just as hastily as he'd discarded the boma, "Listen, any day she's mad at one of you guys instead of me is a win in my books."

"Don't be jealous, Atton. The General is not a woman to be underestimated, I am sure she can be irritated by more than one person at a time."

"Yeah, well -"

"Are you having fun gossiping, ladies?"

Leaning against the door frame was Meetra, wet hair draped in a long slick rope over her shoulder, still wet from the shower. Bao-Dur turned to address her.

"General. I would like to apologise for before. I was mistaken. It seems unfair to oppose Canderous' presence when we already tolerate Atton."

Meetra grinned, and Atton scowled.

"Would you like tea, General?"

Meetra nodded and Bao-Dur offered his cup, which she took in small hands wrapped in the too-long sleeves of the robe she wore over her pyjamas. Bao-Dur set about making another cup for himself and Atton scowled.

"_Meetra_," Atton objected and she took a sip from her cup, peaking over the brim at him with expectant eyes.

"Is there a problem, Atton?" she asked, the corners of her mouth turning up just a little bit and suddenly Atton felt distracted.

"No..." he said and shook his head, "Bao-Dur. Why haven't you offered me tea?"

"It doesn't seem like your kind of drink, Atton," said Bao-Dur, making no effort to sound apologetic.

"What's that supposed to mean?" enquired Atton, narrowing his eyes.

"Too civilised," replied Bao-Dur simply and Meetra snorted, "I think I will retire for the night -"

"Good," interrupted Atton indignantly, but he was ignored.

"- General, it is good to have you back. I hope you enjoy a pleasant night's rest," said Bao-Dur, smiling at Meetra rather warmly.

"Good night, Bao-Dur," she said, returning the smile.

"Atton," said Bao-Dur with finality and a nod.

"Yeah, don't be expecting a good night kiss from me any time soon," said Atton, and Bao-Dur rolled his eyes and left.

"Oh, Atton," said Meetra, smiling Atton's favourite smile, the fond, smitten-looking one, "You are just...terminally incapable of getting along with anyone, aren't you?"

"I get along with you!" argued Atton and Meetra laughed.

"At least you're funny, I suppose."

"So, are you going to tell me all about your vacation in Onderon?"

"Not much _to_ tell, really," said Meetra, setting down her cup and adding more sugar to it to satisfy her rarely indulged but somehow rabid sweet tooth. She picked the cup up again and headed for the door, Atton right behind her.

"Just the usual...taking out high-ranking members of the military in crowded cantinas. Solving murder mysteries. Saving people from abject poverty. Started and ended a violent riot. Helped a Republic spy get off world. Oh! I got some amazing shoes, too!"

"Okay, okay, hot-stuff. I get it. You had lots of fun without me," said Atton. He rolled his eyes but he was smiling, "What I really want to know is how you could leave me eating boma for weeks on end and not even bring me back a cheese burger."

They had reached the cockpit now, and Meetra sank down in the co-pilot's chair and groaned.

"Don't say cheeseburger," she said, wincing, "I've been craving a bantha burger since we left Nar Shaddaa,"

"Bantha?" said Atton, raising an eyebrow and taking a seat next to her, "Schutta, please. Nerf is the superior protein."

"No, no, no. Bantha, with hubba chips and extra pickles," she said, looking wistful.

"Ugh, woman, you are disgusting. Pickles?"

"Yes. Pickles. Lots of pickles. We really need to get to Korriban, but let's stop somewhere that has...you know, food first. I'm sure I can think of a decent excuse to tell Kreia."

"Or, you know, we could just enjoy watching her face twitch in anger," offered Atton. Meetra gave him a look. The robe she wore was a few sizes too large and as she shifted in her seat, it slid off her shoulder, exposing a thin strap of fabric over milky skin. She hitched it up and sighed.

"So...I'm impressed you managed to get us space-worthy again,"

"It's not like I had much else to do, after you left me behind," said Atton with a shrug.

"Well, I'm back now. And I even almost started to miss you!" she said, face bright and mischievous.

"Wow, thanks," replied Atton, sarcastically, "Did you find the Jedi you were after?"

"Yeah. Only saw him briefly, though. Kind of glad, really."

"Why?" said Atton, raising an eyebrow and leaning back in his chair.

"It's...complicated. He was my Master when I left with Revan. He wasn't even particularly opposed to our cause, but when I came back, he didn't do a thing to defend me. I hadn't thought about it in such a long time, I'd forgotten how much it still bothered me until I saw him," she said, and surprised herself with how upfront her words were.

"I thought your Master was a woman?" said Atton, remembering the letter Meetra had written him many months earlier.

"That was my very first Master. Her name was Vima. Kavar, who I was looking for in Iziz...He came later," explained Meetra.

Atton wriggled uncomfortably in his chair. All seemed to be forgiven, but he felt uncomfortable letting the incident go unacknowledged any longer.

"Meetra...About what happened, before you left..."

"Atton," she said, voice tense, "I don't want to talk about that."

"Since when have you not wanted to talk about _anything_?" he asked, suspicious of her response.

"I just don't see the point, right now," she said, quietly, pulling at the fraying hem of her robe.

"I just thought you'd want me to tell you that I'm sorry," he said, confused and feeling a tinge annoyed.

"But you're not, Atton," she said, looking at him pointedly.

"What does that even mean? I said I'm sorry,"

Atton, as he so often did, became immediately defensive and Meetra scrunched her face up, unhappy to have the momentary peace interrupted by what she needed to say.

"You're apologising because you don't want me to be mad at you," she tried to explain.

"Um...exactly?" said Atton, "Am I missing something here?"

"Almost everything, Atton," said Meetra, shaking her head, "Listen. It was okay before, because you were just the guy that flew the ship. I didn't feel the need to call you up on it. But if you want to use the Force, then you can't just act based on whatever you're feeling from minute to minute and expect to patch it up with an empty apology later. I don't want you to just say that you're sorry, I want you to actually think about...what you did. More specifically, _why_ you did it. Practice a little introspection, so in turn you can practice a little restraint."

"I show nothing _but_ restraint around you, Meetra," hissed Atton.

He had intended it one way, and Meetra took it as the other. As he struggled to recover, he realised, even now, both ways were true, really. His thoughts turned dark and suddenly he just wanted her gone, so he could stop thinking about it.

"You know, this is the part where I'd normally storm off, but I don't really have anywhere else to go, so would you mind?" he said, voice cold.

"No," said Meetra, frowning, "A lot of what happened that day was my fault. I pushed you too hard. I just...I assumed you were just being contrary when you said you didn't want to train with the others..."

Meetra sounded lost. She waited for a minute, and when Atton remained silent she continued.

"Can we...not argue? I really missed you quite a lot," she said, meek and honest. Atton felt the tiny hands of Meetra's influence reach into his chest and begin to untangle the knot that lived there, and couldn't fight her anymore.

"Did you really?" he asked, trying to wring the anger from his voice.

"Yes, I did," she said, matter-of-factly with her chin turned up.

"Good," he said, smugly and propped his feet on the dash.

"Atton..." said Meetra, "Are you ever going to tell me what you were doing on Peragus? Or where you're from? Or...anything?"

There was something strange in her voice. Something akin to longing, need. But Atton ignored it.

"Beat me at pazaak and I'll consider it," he said, grinning slyly. Meetra was disappointed but hid it.

"Alright. Deal," said Meetra, challenge in her narrowed eyes.

Atton took the challenge and pulled out his deck, and hers, from where they were kept in the compartment below the controls. Meetra's cards were there because she only ever played pazaak with Atton, though he suspected that was because she did not want to reveal what an incredibly poor player she was to anyone else. They played several rounds and predictably, she lost miserably each time.

Secretly, Atton loved beating her. He loved the tiny crinkle in her nose that deepened with her frustration, loved the way she grinned when she thought she had it in the bag, and how it morphed into a tender pout when she realised she'd been wrong. He loved the way he could always tell when she'd lose her scruples and start using the Force to look at his cards, and how even then she couldn't win. He loved how eventually she would sulk and cross her arms and demand to know how he kept winning even though she was cheating.

An hour passed, and she gave in. Tucking her legs up under her, she began to tell Atton in better detail what had transpired in Iziz, and quietly, they discussed their time apart. Eventually, the conversation ran dry and an affectionate, comfortable hush settled between them. Meetra picked up the novel she had left on the dash a month ago, and navigating with gentle fingers to the middle of the book, she picked up right where she left off, as though she'd never left. Atton stared out the window at the black abyss of space, deep in thought, occasionally glancing over at the sweet figure to his right, wondering how he'd ever managed to get himself into such a mess.

After a long time had passed without hearing a page turn, Atton looked again at Meetra. There, with her seat still swivelled towards Atton's and her legs tucked under her, she had fallen asleep, her perfect face peaceful and still. The shoulder of her robe had finally slid away and sat gathered at her elbow, exposing her chest. Underneath was a camisole, well-worn, dull grey in colour from repeated washings. Straight away, he noticed the perfectly round patches of creamy brown, visible through the thin fabric and felt slightly ashamed when he did not look away. A tactile memory slithered back to him, reminding him, in no way subtle, how blissfully silky that skin was, how full and heavy but yielding and malleable, and the only thing that allowed him to tear his eyes away was knowing how uninvited his gaze was. He turned his head, staring resolutely forwards. After only a moment, he gave in and returned his full attention back to Meetra, this time noticing instead the yellow shadow crawling up her chest, just peaking out from the neckline of the camisole, provoking another memory, just as intimate but far less pleasant.

Then Atton understood. Finally heard what she'd said to him as he bared down on her, voice raspy and strained. Y_ou're hurting me_. He wanted to tell her, wanted to tell her everything. How he was afraid and angry and confused and he loved her and hated her and didn't know what to do about it. With the tips of his fingers, he brushed the fading bruise and Meetra stirred. He pulled his hand away, but not in time, and she stared at him, her face, always venerable, now vulnerable instead. Before she had time to stop him again, he tried again.

"I am so sorry, Meetra," he confessed, his usual vaguely oppugnant tone replaced by one that was weak and earnest. She began to shake her head but he moved towards her, wedging a knee between her leg and the seam of chair, and in quick succession, pressed his lips gently against her chest, then her jaw, then her mouth. She smelt of sweet citrus. For Atton, all the colour in the world seemed to drain away until there was nothing but the reflective pale blue of Meetra's eyes.

She didn't stop him, like he had expected, but rather let his fingers close around hers, let the hand at the nape of her neck angle her head upwards, let him kiss her. He lowered his body carefully, mindful of the awkward angle, as his mind raced to think of a way to transfer her somewhere more accommodating without giving her a chance to exercise better judgement.

The kiss grew rapidly concupiscent, as Atton tried to communicate through it every raging feeling he had for her. She paused and he momentarily panicked. Then, in a movement so swift and smooth and confident, he didn't understand what had happened straight away, he was seated back in the pilot's seat and she was perched on top of him, haunches pressed against his lap and shins squeezing his thighs, a hand buried in his hair and the other at his belt.

Her still-wet hair stuck to his neck and shoulders and made little transparent flecks on his shirt that felt cold against his skin. The holoterminal was ringing but both ignored it and eventually it stopped. The brown robe she'd been wearing was gone, though he hadn't seen her take it off. She raised her arms and he pulled the thin, grey shirt over her head, and it must have slipped from his fingers because it seemed to melt away into nothingness. Though her hands didn't stop, she spoke against his lips.

"What happened? We left less than a day ago," she said, voice fraught with worry and Atton frowned.

"What?" said Atton, not understanding.

"He's an old friend of mine. What did he say?" she said and as Atton tried make sense of her words, he felt a jolt like the floor had suddenly dropped a few inches. Harsh light stung his eyes, and Meetra had her back to him, shirt and robe still on, hair very dry. A glance at the clock, and Atton realised that it was two hours later, and it had been him, not Meetra, who had fallen asleep.

"He would not go into specific detail but said he needed your assistance urgently, and that Queen Talia had arranged you safe passage," said a male voice.

"How urgent?" enquired Meetra.

"I would say extremely. A situation has arisen since you departed Dxun. General Vaklu had the Queen arrested for treason shortly after Kavar contacted us," said the voice again, and Atton recognised it as Kelborn from the Mandalorian encampment.

"Frack," Meetra cursed, voice stiff with frustration, "So this...safe passage, how safe is it?"

"You should not rely on it, now."

"And what are our chances of landing directly on Onderon?"

"Not good. You may wish to speak with Mandalore, I am sure he will be able to assist."

"Deepest thanks, Kelborn. See you soon," said Meetra, switching off the terminal and turning to Atton, "How much of that did you catch?"

"Um...Enough to know we have trouble, I guess," struggled Atton, still distracted.

"That's about the long and short of it. We need to get back to Dxun immediately. How soon can you manage that?" she said, voice all-business.

"Probably by morning?"

"That will have to do, then," she said, getting up and heading for the door. Atton just stared, stunned, and Meetra turned.

"Atton?"

"Yes, Meetra?" he said with bated breath.

"Why are you looking at me like that? We have to go. Now!" she said urgently, clapping her hands in frustration.

"Oh. Right, yeah, sorry," mumbled Atton.

Meetra shook her head and left, as Atton tried desperately to turn his concentration back to the controls, camisoles and silky shoulders still clouding his mind. The flow of time became thick and sticky and slow, and he seemed thoroughly unable to cleanse his mind of the lingering images of Meetra. He did not fancy falling asleep again, but in time the silence became overwhelming and he drifted off. He dreamt of her once again but the content of his mental matinée could have been no more different had he tried.


	16. Then things got a lot better

**Chapter Sixteen**

**_Every man I meet wants to protect me. I can't figure out what from._**

Atton always knew a Jedi would be the death of him, but not like this. How he got to be such a damn fool, he didn't know. Less than a week ago, it had been his thirty-second birthday. That morning he'd been paid for completing a spice-run off-world for the Exchange. He'd taken the liberty of lifting a sample of the product as part of his commission, and by that evening he'd found not one, but two, very young, very pretty Twi'lek girls with whom to share it. There he'd been in his dingy apartment on Nar Shaddaa, blissfully trollied, buried beneath dirty sheets in a sweaty, sticky, rapturous mess of limbs and lips; a fitting way to celebrate the complete and utter pointlessness that his life had become. Then Coorta called and ruined everything.

He wanted to ignore it, of course. He'd spent years trying to block out that itch, gone through the waves of withdrawal time and again. Sleepless nights, as the wall of voices tormented him, made every muscle ache and yearn and tear. Every time he thought he'd gotten past it, he needed it all over again. But there were no Jedi left now, nowhere to ever get that glorious fix again. Except _her_. And Coorta, one of the few people alive that knew all about Atton's _skills _for handling Jedi, was basically offering to deliver her right into Atton's lap. He knew the odds; he'd never get this chance again. And maybe it wouldn't hurt, anyway. He told himself that he'd only stopped because he didn't want the Jedi or the Sith on his trail, but they'd both wiped each other out. He told himself that it was different this time; that last Jedi, his last Jedi, she'd been special. It wasn't like that. He told himself that the only ones left standing were himself, and this mysterious woman who had seemed to wash ashore just for him. He told himself it was okay.

So he abandoned the two Twi'lek girls, because young and pretty and limber though they were, they were nothing compared to the sweet kiss of the Force. After dressing quickly, he made a stop or two for supplies and was gone within the hour. The spice wore off on the way to Peragus, but the intense anticipation for seeing this very last Jedi did not. Coorta just wanted him to take the Jedi back to the Exchange, so they could split the credits. But Atton wasn't going to do that. He was going to take her somewhere hidden, and destroy her slowly piece by piece, and sip upon the light inside her like a fine wine.

It didn't really work out the way he'd planned, though. The whole endeavour had been a frack-up from the moment he'd landed. He'd lost his blaster immediately because of some stupid rule or another, and only managed to get through security in the first place because Coorta had vouched for him. It didn't take long to realise something wasn't right in the isolated mining colony, and Atton had a distinct feeling that he wasn't the only person after this lost Jedi.

He was pretending to make a delivery, and was restricted to the reception area. He had only twelve hours clearance before he'd be forced to leave. It was a pain in the ass, but he finally managed to sneak away, and into the medical centre. There he'd found a long row of kolto tanks filled with unconscious bodies but Force be damned if he could figure out which one was supposed to be the Jedi. He'd always had a knack for detecting them; he could smell that self-righteous stench a mile away. But none of them really triggered anything for him. He didn't know if it was because he'd lost his touch, or because they were all out stone cold. Maybe it was something else. Either way, he had decided to overload all the tanks with excess amounts of sedative, something only a Jedi could survive. With such a tight schedule, it was the only thing he could think of to weed her out. And, well, if it killed her, whoever she was, he'd still get what he wanted from the equation anyway. And it would have worked too, if some needle-brained doctor hadn't walked in and called security.

So there he was. Four days imprisoned, neglected for the last three. Starving to death in a security cage, and it was all because of a damned Jedi. He knew one would kill him eventually, but not like this.

He was beyond tired. The field that encased him made it impossible to lie down, and his only option to sleep was to carefully balance his back against the thin metal strip at the back of the cage. He was hungrier than he could ever remember being, and when his mind traveled against his will to thoughts of food, he was forced to lasso it back to stop himself going mad. He closed his eyes and tried to count cards. Tried to hear melodies in the buzzing of the security cage. Tried to will himself back to his apartment with those girls whose faces he could barely remember and names he had never known. He looked at the door again. Internally, he begged it to open. Begged someone to walk through it. Preferably someone with a cigarra and something stiff to drink, but he'd take anyone at this point.

He'd all but given up and started to ponder what kind of hell awaited him at the end of all this, when he heard the electric groan of the forcefield outside the door shutting down. He waited, teetering between patience and desperation, until the door finally opened, and a tanned, ebony-haired vision stood before him, brandishing a plasma torch and wearing nothing but underwear. If she had any flaws, he was too delirious to notice them. But even through the fog, he knew that she was beautiful and the scoundrel in him refused to miss a beat.

"Ni-ice outfit. What, you miners change regulation uniforms since I've been in here?"

She approached slowly and stopped before him, surveying her find. He stared unashamedly at her breasts because it distracted him so completely from the ache in his stomach and his legs and his feet. Her heard her fingers snap and when he looked up she was frowning.

"Keep those eyes up, and tell me who are you," she ordered, not a trace of nonsense in her voice and Atton knew to comply.

"Atton...Atton Rand. Excuse me if I don't shake hands, the field only causes mild electrical burns," he drawled. At that moment, he felt a game commence, where each raced to evaluate the other. Atton didn't know if she was dangerous. She didn't _look _dangerous, but he couldn't be sure, and she seemed equally wary of him.

"I'll let it slide. This time," she said, casually, and turned away. As if he wasn't even there, she began to rifle through the lockers in the room. She moved in such a strange way. Almost every inch of her was bare, but it was like she didn't even know. It angered him in a way he couldn't begin to understand. He watched as she pulled a shoe from a foot locker under the security desk. She held the rubber sole against the bottom of her own bare foot and must have decided they'd be a decent fit because she retrieved its twin, sat on the edge of the desk and began to put them on.

"I don't mean to interrupt, but would you mind letting me out?" he asked, impatiently, and she looked up, eyes wide as though she'd forgotten all about him.

"Why don't you tell me why you're in there first?"

"Security claimed I violated some trumped-up regulation or another."

"Such as?"

"Why don't you take it up with them if you're so interested? All I know is, they stopped listening to me shortly before they stopped feeding me. Now, _that's _criminal," he said, trying to take the wheel.

She submitted. "Do you know where we are?" she said, now opening desk drawers and flicking through their contents as if she owned the place.

"You mean you didn't come here on purpose? I'm shocked. Really, I am," he replied, sarcasm tinging the edge of his words.

She looked square at him, her eyes narrowing. "Do you want to stay in there, or do you want to tell me where we are?"

"This slice of paradise, sweetheart," he started and enjoyed the way her mouth twitched a little at the word, "Is the Peragus Mining Facility, the only supplier of shipping-grade engine fuel to this corner of the galaxy. Peragus fuel plays havoc with engines, but it gets the job done...as long as you don't mind the toxic byproducts and trying to mine it without blowing yourself up." Talking felt good, after being alone for so many days, and Atton began to ramble. "So this whole asteroid belt is one giant minefield. One proton torpedo, even a stray blaster shot, and you've got an explosion that'll make the one that shattered Peragus II look like a kid's pop detonator. You know the planet with the exposed core you saw flying in? That hole was caused by the first mining station that tried to -"

"Okay," she interrupted, "I get it. Don't need a history lesson. What system are we in?"

"No idea, sweetheart," lied Atton, irritation whistling through his teeth. Whoever this woman was, she was turning out to be a real schutta, and he wasn't interested in playing along, fantastic breasts or not.

"I..._Fine_..." she said, exhaling with frustration. "Anyway, look, I've been stuck in a kolto tank for I don't even know how long -"

_Pure pazaak_. Her words faded away, as Atton inwardly gloated. There was his Jedi - how it hadn't occurred to him he didn't know, but he could barely believe his luck. He loved the pretty ones the most. In the end, they all cried when he finally broke them, and most of the time it was ugly. Scrunched up faces, shuddery gasps, mucus dripping from their noses. But the pretty ones only ever let their eyes glisten, and perfect, single tears roll down their cheeks, one at a time. Momentarily, he drifted away, wondering how long it would take to rip her apart once he talked her into letting him out and he got his chance.

She cleared her throat. "Atton?"

"What?"

"Where is everyone? What happened here?"

He wanted to rush it, but knew she had him at a disadvantage, so he played it slow and steady, trying to elicit a response from her that would give him an opening. "You mean, before or after that Jedi showed up? Either way, it's a real short story."

"What Jedi?" she asked, and her voice was sincere. _Liar._

"Well, this Jedi shows up, right?" he began.

_You'd know, wouldn't you?_

"And yunno what that means...A Jedi shows up and suddenly you've got the Republic crawling up your ion engine. But it gets better, because some of the miners get it into their ferrocrete skulls that since this Jedi's unconscious -" he paused momentarily, searching, but still her face was serene, "- they can collect the bounty the Exchange posted for live Jedi."

"The Exchange?" she asked, innocently, head tilted.

"Yeah...you know, big crime outfit, responsible for most of the galaxy's supply of spice, guns, slaves? No?"

She just shook her head, and Atton couldn't believe her audacity. As if she didn't know.

"Why would they put a bounty on captured Jedi?" she asked. She folded her legs up under her so she was sitting cross-legged on the desk, and leaned in, looking intrigued.

"Don't really know. Maybe someone high up wants one for a trophy or something. Jedi are hardly short on enemies, maybe someone's looking to collect. Either way, wouldn't surprise me. Bounty's probably pretty high by now," he said.

She stayed silent for a moment, and Atton could see the thoughts turning over in her head. He noticed, then, that she hadn't tried to pry around in his skull yet and wondered if she really was the Jedi. That seemed to the opening move for every Jedi he'd ever met, and yet, there his secrets still sat, safe and untouched.

"Anyway...back to Peragus. These miners figure they can sell this Jedi, and what passes for law around here didn't like that so much. So the two groups start fighting. There's a big explosion, and I'm still stuck in here. So I sit and wait for a real long time, then...then you showed up in your underwear and things got a lot better," he added, hoping that would make her crack just a little.

No dice. She just sat there, and the compliment rolled off her as though she hadn't even heard it.

"About that bounty..." she started, and Atton didn't wait.

"Look, like I said, I don't know too much about it. Could be something personal, or just business. Either way, there aren't really any Jedi left to do anything about it."

"Since when?" she asked, and there was the tiniest sliver of surprise and maybe fear. Atton felt like he'd found the thread he needed to unravel her.

"Yeah, rumour is this Jedi here on Peragus is the last one. The civil war thinned them out, and the few that were left switched off the lightsabers a long time ago. There's not even a Jedi Council anymore."

He could tell from the way her lips pinched that her teeth were clenched. She opened and closed her mouth a few times before regaining her composure.

"And this...this happened after the Mandalorian Wars?" she asked, tentatively.

"Yeah, that's right. Revan, Malak and the Jedi that followed them to war. They all went Sith and turned against the other Jedi. Had a scrap that laid waste to the galaxy. Where have you been?"

"I've..." she stopped for just a little too long, "I've been away. Since the Mandalorian Wars. I knew about the Sith but...Didn't know the Council was in such disrepair."

"Doesn't bother you, does it? What do you care about the Jedi?" asked Atton, trying not to sound too snide.

"I...don't," she said mechanically, any detachment clearly rehearsed, "I'd heard that...Revan had died but...what became of Malak?" she said, eyes suddenly very intensely focused on Atton.

"It's Malak that's dead, not Revan, last time I checked," said Atton, with a shrug, "Malak turned on Revan, then Revan went back to the Order and got help to take Malak out."

She lost hold of her composure and made a tiny squeak. She looked as if she was holding back an emotion that was tremendously powerful, as she stood and started pacing. Atton watched her patiently for a few moments, then knocked on the metal strip at the back of the cage to get her attention.

"Look, it's not like your half-naked interrogation isn't a personal fantasy of mine, but how about you let me out? I can help you. I've gotten out of trouble countless times."

"Oh, I bet you have," she said flatly, then frowned, "One more thing...The other patients in the med bay were all dead when I woke up. Killed with a lethal dose of sedatives. You know anything about that, Atton Rand?"

_Frack._

"No. What are you even talking about?"

"Nothing. Just checking," and for the first time, she smiled at him. Her lips were tender rosy pink and her teeth were white and almost straight. He tried to fight it, but it made a tiny coil inside him tighten.

"Are you done interrogating me, or are we going to work together and try to get out of this mess?"

"Alright, alright," she relented and moved to the security panel on the far side of the room. She began to press buttons as she spoke, "So, do you have a plan?"

"Well, this isn't a military installation, which means we may have a chance. I should be able to reroute the emergency systems so we can get to the hangers, then we just grab a ship, and fly out of here."

_And I'll make you regret you ever found me._

"There!" she said, looking back over her shoulder at him as the security field sighed and shut down.

Atton felt his head ringing as the electric buzz finally stopped, and he blinked hard, surprised to see the room around him without the haze of yellow. He couldn't help giving her breasts another once over. You know, to be thorough.

"Better?" she asked, voice decidedly more friendly now.

"Yeah...thanks," he said. He observed her for a second, and the words just fell out, even though he didn't want them to, "You're that Jedi, aren't you?"

She looked at him for a long time. "Not a Jedi anymore, but yes," she admitted.

Atton nodded, and side by side they began to walk down the long, abandoned corridor. She was beautiful, and sort of intriguing. He hadn't expected it, but it didn't change anything. He was still going to kill her. But he could maybe afford to enjoy her company for just a little while, first. No harm in that.

"So, do you have a name, Jedi-but-not-a-Jedi?"

Atton didn't really care what her name was, but it seemed convenient to know it. He didn't expect the answer to make his blood run cold.

"Meetra Surik."

_Frack._


	17. Not of citrus or lilies, just her

**Chapter Seventeen**

**_Is he alone who has courage on his right hand and faith on his left hand?_**

Atton woke with Meetra's hand resting across his chest, her face close to his. His first thought was that she smelt not of citrus or lilies, just her. It was a nice smell. Comforting.

"You gonna land this thing, or do I have to do it?" she whispered.

Atton kept his eyes closed. His mind was still sifting dreams from reality. A small part of him was intent on making this into a dream as well, waking up close to her. She pressed her palm and gave him a soft shake and he inhaled sharply through his nose.

"Just a minute," he muttered, reaching up and touching her forearm to keep her there a moment longer.

When his grip loosened, Meetra moved away. She sat in the co-pilot's chair and Atton slowly sat up, trying not to provoke the kink in his neck.

"You should sleep in the dorms, Atton. That can't be good for your back," she said. She began to tidy, taking Atton's scattered pazaak cards on the dash and carefully stacking them into a deck.

Atton looked at Meetra. If the holocall from Kelborn was not enough to convince him something big was happening, her face certainly was. She had been anxious last night and now she was serene, focused. He had noticed over the last few months that there was always a point, with Meetra, where it all clicked together. She would struggle, her confidence would falter, she would begin to look worn. And then things would get serious and she would slam a lid on all her insecurities. Almost transform into someone capable and cool and precise. Atton looked away, and started running through landing procedure.

"Yeah, well, I'd rather a bad back than listening to Blondie snuffling about body target zones in his sleep," he said, casually.

Meetra laughed, then tapped Atton's deck on the dash. "I need to get ready. Can you land near the camp? We don't have time to waste on the walk."

"You're the boss, Surik," replied Atton.

Meetra nodded, and stood. She headed for the door, and Atton heard her hand hit the release and the door slide open, but a second later, she touched his hair. He looked up, and she looked down, standing behind him. It was time, and he knew it.

"I'm sorry, Meetra."

She smiled and he could tell she meant it. "I know. It's fine," she said. She ran her palm over his forehead, and all Atton wanted to do at that moment was pull her down on to his lap and hold her. She gave his hair a quick ruffle, and made her exit, leaving Atton alone with his thoughts.

He'd not had a lot of opportunity to prove it to the _Ebon Hawk's_ crew, thus far, but Atton was an excellent pilot. Occasionally someone, more often than not Meetra, would rib him over the more unfortunate landings he'd made over the course of their journey, but the blame usually laid with terrible conditions. Indeed, in the hands of a less capable pilot, Atton knew it was likely at least someone would have died by now, but he didn't make a big deal out of it. Bragging about his skills meant opening himself up to be questioned about his past, and the people he travelled with already knew far more than he wanted them to know. Still, he was an excellent pilot. Which meant he could make the landing on Dxun without even thinking about it, so he allowed himself to zone out and muscle memory to take over. For years he'd squashed every cogitation that scraped deeper than where he wanted to drink that night. But these last few months, it all seemed determined to drift to the surface and at that moment, he let it. He did not feel refreshed at all by his slumber, and Meetra wasn't wrong about the knot forming in his back. He surrendered to fatigue and bad memories and his mind slipped into a fog. Though he barely noticed it, the morning snaked past, and the _Hawk_ touched down, and Atton followed Meetra and the others into the camp.

This mental fog did not lift until a bright ray from the morning sun rising in front of him hit his face and made his tired eyes squint until they were almost closed. He looked down and the grass beneath his feet was wet and sparkling with dew. He looked up at Meetra. Sunshine filtered through the stray hairs around her head and made them glint golden yellow, and he couldn't help but notice that she looked much more well-rested than he did. It was really just jealousy and weariness, but everyone's fresh, alert faces annoyed Atton, hers included. His attention drifted and waned as Kelborn explained the situation. Civil war in Iziz, jungle full of Sith, streets filled with rampant boma, apparently. The kind of chaos that was beginning to seem part and parcel when following Meetra. Atton shook his head to dislodge his fatigue, and tried to focus.

"It is essential, and inevitable, that we face both enemies at the same time," spoke Kreia, looking at Meetra, expressionless as always but tone ominous.

"I...I can't be in two places at once," started Meetra. She frowned in concentration, "I need some of you to go after the Sith. I have to go to Iziz. I can't risk losing Kavar."

"I concur. We have precious little time to waste. Make your choice, and we will depart," said Kreia. Meetra nodded gently and pursed her lips, drumming her fingers on her palm.

"Three should be enough. Visas, Mical...are you okay to go?"

The two acknowledged Meetra with curt nods.

"And...Atton. I want you to lead."

"Wait, what?" asked Atton, looking at Meetra dubiously. He was not the only one. Meetra ignored the questioning looks from her companions, and pointed at Visas, then Mical.

"Do as he says, and you'll be fine."

"We will accompany you to the enemy's camp. Let me know when you wish to go," said Kelborn to Atton, and Atton grimaced.

"I'm ready to go now. The rest of you will come with me. Atton," she said, meeting his eyes, "You should leave as soon as possible. I'll see you when you get back."

She turned and walked away to avoid any further opposition, but Atton pushed past the others and caught her by the elbow.

"How about I just head down to Onderon with you? I'm really itching to hit up a cantina," he said. Honesty had been his intention but pride had mangled his words.

"Give me your blaster, Atton," she said, as though the words were already waiting on her tongue.

He was confused but complied, holding the weapon by the barrel, with the grip pointed towards her. She took it and holstered it, then offered her own lightsaber which he reluctantly accepted. It felt colder and heavier than his, though it was more compact. Its bright silver exterior was tarnishing in a palm-sized spot from extensive use.

"You're good at Jar'Kai. You know that?" she asked, and Atton only looked more bewildered, "Dual-wielding, Atton."

"So?"

"So, I want you to use you take my lightsaber, and duel-wield. No blasters."

"Oh...So you...What will you use?"

"Your blaster. I went almost a decade without a saber. How do you think I got myself out of trouble that whole time?"

"Good looks? I always figured you were walking around Peragus in your underwear for a reason."

"Cute theory. But I can handle a pistol" she replied, tapping his stomach with the back of her hand, pretending the sly compliment didn't phase her. She sensed his uncertainty, and added, "That...that crystal, in my lightsaber. It's bonded to me. So, if something goes wrong, I'll be right there with you. Okay?"

"Okay, but...if I accidentally dismember Mical, it's your fault, got that?"

"Duly noted," replied Meetra, with a tiny laugh.

From a distance, Canderous called to Meetra and they were forced to part ways. When she was gone, he affixed her lightsaber to his belt on the left, and somehow, it made his own, to the right, seem lighter.


	18. Pain on his left, joy on his right

**Chapter Eighteen**

**_Forgiveness is the fragrance that the violet sheds on the heel that has crushed it. _**

Nights had taken on new meaning for many who travelled in the _Ebon Hawk_.

For Atton, he'd always made his nights loud and bright enough to block out the unpleasant thoughts that filtered through his head. Now, they were routinely quiet, and he had no choice but to think.

For Bao-Dur, he had grown used to the damaged grounds of Telos, of hearing the gentle lullaby of the soil as its wounds knit slowly back together. Now, there was a different kind of song, the _Ebon Hawk _as she parted time and space, protecting them from the harshness of the void by hiding them in her belly.

For Mira, she had always been too full of fear to ever truly sleep. Now, she was surrounded by those who routinely risked their lives for her and finally, she was safe to close her eyes. It was jarring, somehow more frightening than before, and she slept worse than ever.

For Visas, she had been fed upon, tormented, spiritually blind. Now the wound that she had sought had shown itself to her, and it was not an abomination but just a woman like any other. Light shone where there had been none before, and though she retained no ocular function, she could finally see, even in the pitch of night.

For Meetra, she had been empty and alone for years, and day and night passed with little difference between them. Now, when she lay in bed, trying to sleep, she could hear the echoes of those around her and the traces the _Ebon Hawk _retained of those that had come before them. Sometimes, when she listened very hard, she was almost certain she heard Revan, and he sounded lighter than she had ever known him.

For all of them, nights were stranger than days, and the nature of how they came together meant it was uncomfortable and awkward to spend time in one another's company without a specific goal or task or enemy to fight. But tonight was different, something new all together.

Victorious, triumphant they had come from three days of battle, reunited at the Mandalorian camp. Visas, Mical and Atton had returned first, clothes torn and muddied by the jungle, faces shiny with the bright heat of midday. The others had come later that afternoon from Iziz, dusty and bloody. By the time the sun had retired, there was a change in the air.

In an unexpected turn, the Mandalorians had acted the part of gracious host, and had thrown a celebratory gathering, partly to commiserate their losses over the last few days, and to bid fond, if temporary, farewell to Mandalore. Canderous explained the purpose behind this as _aay'han_, the joy of spending time with loved ones, while honouring those whose lives had drawn to a close. Still, it was more than that, though no one said it. It was a nod to the symbolic combining of forces between Meetra and Canderous, whose families had been torn down by one another, and left each of them the lonely leaders of the last of their kind.

And so it was, that night descended, and the usual chorus of insects and wind rustling through the fronds was drowned out by music, big solid drums deep and resonating through the soil, a gentle bed of voices, male and female, singing in Mando'a, the acerbic plucks of the tanbur and the shrill descant of the bes'bev. The fierce sunshine was replaced by the warm, flickering glow of a bonfire almost seven feet tall, their bellies filled with _haarshun_ and _uj'alayi_ and relaxed and friendly conversation passing over their tongues. It was a new experience for most of the _Ebon Hawk's _crew, especially those whose previous interactions with the Mandalorians had shown little else than a brutal people who mowed down their enemies without thought. No, tonight was different. All had learned a little, about themselves and each other and it seemed a turning point in their journey.

Atton was sitting alone in the shadows, watching Meetra. In one hand she held a cup, and the other was gesturing wildly as she made conversation with two Mandalorians and Mical. For once, Atton was not jealous, and was watching out of quiet reverence more than anything.

He'd been frustrated and angered when she had made him leader of the small strike team responsible for taking care of the Sith. Dxun was a hard place for him to be. In those skies, the event that had kicked off all the grief in his life had happened. It was that he'd been more than just oblivious to it, that he'd been proud of it, that made the memory sting. The Second Battle of Dxun, where his actions had made him a hero and drawn the attention of those who would break him down and scar him and rob him of the life he'd once wanted. And sometimes he wondered if he'd just held back, just let someone else take the reigns, if maybe it would have worked out differently for him. And when Meetra put him back in charge, here of all places, he hated her for it.

But he'd found wisdom in her choice when he stood in that tomb and became mired in the darkness. The twisted power in that place was obvious. So much so that even a non-Force-sensitive would most likely feel it. Atton saw it coming a mile away but remembered what she'd said when she'd surrendered her lightsaber to him. He thought she'd shelter him from it. He'd expected something miraculous, as if that white crystal encased in silver would act as a shield to hold it back. But it did nothing.

It had been easy for it to climb down deep inside him. He had spent years, unknowingly, etching out crevices and footholds for it cling to and it knew the path instinctively because he'd allowed it passage so many times before. It tore down, racing to the very bottom of him and filled the aperture of his soul, throwing off his balance, like it always had before. He felt his resolve wash away under its relentless wave and tried to swim against it but he was lopsided, stuck drifting in circles. He went under once, and then again, as the rip tide snared him and tried to take him down with it. And then he understood.

She hadn't meant that it would somehow allow her to be present, or help him through the Force, or anything like that. The weapon was nothing but a symbol. His pain on his right, and his joy on his left. The pain and grief and regret of his past, tempered by the love and goodness and happiness she stirred in him. Two opposing forces, so different but equally strong, enough to slow his descent and grant the equilibrium he needed to move forward.

He'd turned away from it for the first time, there, and when he fought after that his weapon felt a little better in his hand, like it was fighting him back a little less, maybe even co-operating. So as he sat there, outside the light of the bonfire and scattered torches, watching Meetra make animated conversation with two Mandalorians and Mical, he was strangely at peace, and content just to watch her.

She had done away with her boots, and was barefoot, toes buried in the sand. She wore the same red stained, cream tunic she had left in days earlier, cinched by her belt, that sagged on her hips from the uneven weight of a vibrosword, unused grenades and Atton's blaster. She looked fatigued, but calm, and because she could always tell when he was staring, she turned her head to meet his eyes with her own, warm and pensive. He was disappointed that she looked away almost immediately and kept talking, until he was realised she was excusing herself. She came to him, hips swaying with a slightly altered rhythm to counteract the swing of the sword, and set herself next to him the grass.

"Hey you," she said, and he could hear in her voice that she was ever so slightly tipsy. She was still composed, but a little looser than usual.

"What have you got there?" he said, craning his neck to look inside the cup she held.

"What, this?" she said, swilling the dark liquid carefully, then offering it to Atton, "It's uh...Ne'tra, according to Canderous."

Atton took the cup and sniffed it, before taking a sip. He pursed his lips in thought, then shrugged.

"I suppose that's not the worst thing I've ever tasted."

"I don't even want to think about the worst thing _you've_ ever tasted," she said, voice sly.

"That's a good story, actually. Did I ever tell you about this one time when I was doing a delivery to Manaan and met this Selkath who -"

"Enough!" she whined, gently tapping his arm with the heel of her fists, and Atton started laughing.

"Alright, alright," he said, leaning away from her, "I was only teasing. Space, it's even easier to get a rise out of you when you're drunk."

Meetra shifted so she was facing his side.

"I am _not _drunk, Atton. I am merely...appreciating the fine wares on offer. I thought you would approve," she said, jutting out her chin in mock defence.

"Never said I didn't," he replied, raising an eyebrow at her. Meetra smiled at him, then her eyes widened and she hummed briefly as she remembered.

"Thought you would have already chased me down to get this back," she said, unclipping his blaster from her belt and holding it out to him. He offered her lightsaber in return, and there was a moment of silence as they exchanged weapons and put them back in their rightful places.

"So did she treat you well?" Meetra asked, referring to her saber.

Atton nodded, slowly, mind travelling back to what had transpired. He wondered if he should share it with her, then decided it was unnecessary.

"Did something happen?" she said, frowning just a little.

"Yeah, I guess it did," he said, letting the words turn over slowly.

"Fancy elaborating?"

"Guess I just...had to prove something to myself, and finally got the chance to," said Atton, and Meetra felt a little surprised that he hadn't just deflected with a nasty comment about Mical.

"What was it?" she said, keeping in mind how Atton loathed to engage in deep conversation and thus trying to keep her voice breezy.

"When I...asked you to train me, I hadn't really thought about it. Then, we made my lightsaber, and the first time I held it, it just felt...wrong. Like it wasn't mine to use. I started wishing I'd never asked you in the first place."

Atton stopped here to gather his words, and Meetra momentarily panicked.

"Maybe it's the crystal. It's not...really a run of the mill kind of crystal. Maybe I shouldn't have -" she began but stopped abruptly when Atton shook his head, silently asking her to stop talking.

"I've been worried that...getting in touch with the Force would leave me vulnerable. But um...something happened, and...The details aren't really important but, I feel...stronger now. And it doesn't feel so bad, anymore. Doesn't feel great, but...not so bad, either. So um...thanks. For helping me," he finished awkwardly.

Meetra said nothing and instead just watched him. Atton might have felt embarrassed by this admission and her resulting silence, but she looked touched, almost proud.

"Hey, listen, Meetra," he said, looking right at her.

"Yeah?"

"You're never going to beat me at pazaak," he said, and she frowned.

"What's that got to do with anything?"

"Well. I guess I sort of owe you one. So, even though I kicked your ass, and you're never going to win -" he said, opening his mouth and pointing at her to stay quiet as she sat up, annoyed, "- I'll answer three questions."

Meetra tilted her head, surprised.

"Wasn't expecting that," she said, then hugged her legs and rested her chin on her knees, in thought, "Alright. I'll play. Here's something. That whole thing, before we landed on Dxun that first time...I get how you Force choked me. It's not that far removed from the basic TK I've been teaching you. But...I swear you Feared me. I heard you screaming for help and I couldn't concentrate. I haven't gone over tricks or persuasion with any of you. How did you learn to do that?"

Atton raised his eyebrows and took a deep breath.

"I don't know,"

"Oh, come on, that's not an answer," she said, disappointment clouding her face as she gave him a gentle backhand against the chest.

"No, really. I don't know. It was just something...I figured out, when I used to hunt Jedi. Never really was sure if it worked or not, but it seemed to, and..." he trailed off and shrugged, "Sorry. When the Sith trained me, they covered hiding your presence from Force-sensitives, and, I suppose it was just a...natural progression."

"Well. It does work, if you'd like to know. And I didn't appreciate it," she said, almost sounding hurt.

"I'm sorry," he said, earnestly, and she shook her head.

"Don't worry about it," she said, casually, as she drummed her palms against her knees, "I still have two questions, and you're not distracting me that easily. I want to know where you're from, where you grew up."

Atton was almost amused that she cared about that. It hardly seemed relevant to him, and he'd expected her to want to know something slightly meatier.

"Alderaan."

"And?"

"And what? Alderaan. I was born there, lived the first eighteen years of my life there, I'd say that's a pretty accurate answer."

Her face soured, frustrated to have wasted a question, though in hindsight, she wasn't really sure what else she had expected him to say.

"Why were you on Peragus?" she asked, abruptly. Her tone was identical to that she'd used the first time she'd spoken to him. No nonsense. Piercing eyes. And Atton knew to comply.

"I went there to find you," he admitted, "This guy I'd served with, during the war...He was a miner. Not a close friend or anything, but he knew about...what I'd done for the Sith. He wanted to sell you to the Exchange but he was too much of a fragging gullipud to do it himself. He called me, and I went because..." he stopped and scanned Meetra's face, as though he wanted to capture it before it turned, "I wanted to kill you. I mean, not _you_, but...this famed last Jedi."

He braced for a torrent of anger but none came. Instead, Meetra laughed.

"I _knew_ it."

"What? You did not," he said, frustrated.

"Sure, I did. Not the, uh, creepy Jedi killer part, admittedly, but I figured you were after me, for some reason. A normal person would have been begging for food or water or something, but you were too busy trying to needle a reaction out of me by talking about Revan. Also, you looked like I'd just kicked you in the dualities when I asked if you knew about all those stiffs in the kolto tanks."

"If you knew, then why'd you even ask?"

"Just wanted you to admit it," she said, shrugging.

"You think you've got me all figured out, don't you?"

"Ha! _Hardly_," she scoffed.

"Why would you let me come along with you if you knew?"

She shrugged.

"You didn't seem to have any compunctions about staring at my chest. Maybe I wanted something to look at, too," she said, coyly. Between her words and the look she was giving him, he wanted just to ravish her right there in the dirt and sand, and had they been alone, he might have tried.

"You know, Atton," she said, sighing almost dreamily, "I can't help but notice that I am still very much alive. Why?"

Atton shook his head, curtly.

"I said three questions. That makes four," he said.

"Oh, you bishwag, Atton," she admonished, leaning over and taking her weight on one hand as the other ruffled his hair. For a moment, there was a flicker of the affection each had been missing for weeks now, and Atton reached up and took her hand, pulling it away but threading his fingers through hers and squeezing for a moment before letting go.

"Meetra?" he said, voice darker than before.

"Yes, Atton?" she said.

"About that first thing...The Fear thing."

"What about it?"

"You showed up in the cockpit, one night, ages ago. Said you'd tried to feel my mind, wanted to know why I was thinking about pazaak."

"Yeah, and you got mad, didn't want to tell me," she said, trying to follow and failing.

"Yeah, well, I didn't appreciate you trying to poke around in my head,"

"I'm...sorry, Atton. I didn't know it was still bothering you," she said, squirming a little.

"It doesn't. That's not it. See, I don't think you could have helped yourself. Jedi, light or dark, do it more often than you'd think. I'm surprised you said sorry at all, that's gotta be a new house rule. But that's why I play pazaak. Because if you don't, you've left the door open, and anyone can walk right in."

Mentally, Meetra turned his words over and examined them.

"You play pazaak to shield your thoughts?" she asked, brow furrowed.

"No. I just play pazaak. And while I'm doing that, it's a lot harder for - "

Atton was interrupted when Meetra startled and squeaked, as an unknown hand touched her shoulder. The tiny vacuum that had formed around them rapidly breached, filling with noise and light and the presence of others.

"Meetra, you're uh...missed," said Mical and Atton rolled his eyes.

"Oh!" she said, finding her mouth unusually dry, "I didn't realise. I suppose common courtesy demands I...mingle."

"You're not too busy, are you?" asked Mical, almost dismissively.

"Oh, um. No," she said, shaking her head. Her cheeks felt hot.

Mical took her hand, the hand that Atton had held only a moment ago, and pulled her to her feet. As she dusted off her tunic, Atton and Mical looked at each other. Atton detected something he hadn't seen in Mical's eyes before, a biting hostility that seemed extra harsh compared to his normal doe-eyed cluelessness. The stare between them was intense, and Atton was almost intimidated by it.

"Atton, why don't you come over? There's cake," she said, hopefully, but Atton did not break eye contact with Mical.

"I'll pass," he said, coolly.

Meetra's shoulders slacked in confusion.

"Well. Okay. If you change your mind..." she trailed off, lost.

Mical turned to Meetra and placed a hand high on her back to steer her back to the gathering. The two walked away, making conversation that was drowned out by the music and their bodies became silhouettes against the luminescence of the bonfire. If Atton had been able to see her face, he might have seen how disappointed she was, but he couldn't. Instead he sat there, raking his fingers through the sand, the light calm he had felt earlier gone and replaced by something bitter. Suddenly a night that had been different, turned back into the kind of night he was used to, solitary confinement in a cell made of unpleasant memories and unresolved lust.


	19. Heights and holofilms

**Chapter Nineteen**

**_The rain begins with a single drop. _**

Coruscant was grand, the crown jewel of the Republic, the queen of the core worlds. And it was Meetra's favourite place in all the galaxy.

As they were finally leaving Dxun, Atton had asked her where she wanted to go, and she'd flashed a mint's worth of credits and told him Coruscant. It wasn't one of the places they needed to go, but he didn't need convincing after being stuck in the jungle for weeks on end. She'd anticipated resistance from the others, but easily headed off any complaints by pointing out that their supplies were low, their gear was becoming less adequate with each fight and even with their skills combined, Atton, Bao-Dur and Teethree hadn't been able to fix the _Hawk_'s particle shields, which meant they were one unexpected asteroid field away from well and truly becoming one with the Force.

And so, they went to Coruscant, for a visit was so brief it would barely warrant mention in a recount of their tale. Instead of turning her attention outwards to help strangers like usual, Meetra looked inward, and set to work immediately on re-tooling her group of misfits into a proper team. She organised implants for all who we were willing, bought new weapons, clothes, armour, and arranged extensive work on the _Ebon Hawk _to restore it to new. Even Teethree got a new coat of paint and a polish, and by the end of the week, they felt fresh and renewed. With the _Ebon Hawk_ out of commission, they stayed in a hotel for the duration and on their last night, Meetra came to Atton's door and asked a favour. She wanted his company to see a holofilm; an unexpected request. Still, Atton, who was rarely adverse to spending time alone with her, agreed and they set out into the streets in search of a cinema, and, amused, he watched her observe the sights around her, wide-eyed and eager in a way that was rare for her.

Coruscant was comparable to Nar Shaddaa in lots of ways, but far more secretive. It hid its filth beneath a gleaming face of lights and candy-coloured billboards. The people that walked its street were just as broken, but plastered over it with expensive clothes and jewellery to fool unsuspecting tourists. To Atton, who knew none of Meetra's sentimental attachment to this planet, it seemed a strange place for her to favour, when she had seemed so at home on Dantooine, which was in every way Coruscant's polar opposite.

Strolling through the Fobosi Distrct, they found a cineplex. The selection of films was small and unappealing, so they flipped a coin and chose at random. The theatre was empty save for them and it became quickly apparent why. The film was badly-acted, with cringe inducing dialogue spoken entirely in Quarrenese. After half an hour they admitted that not even the sparklemints and namana twists Meetra had bought could sweeten such a lemon of a film, so they took advantage of their solitude, turned off their translators and made up their own dialogue. They found each other witty and charming in a way that only two in love can do, and when it was over, neither wanted to go back, just yet.

They wandered, aimlessly, until they found a roof-top park that was large and sprawling. Here the air was cool and fresh and smelt of rain, and they sat a while, to appreciate it. In silence, Atton smoked a cigarette while Meetra closed her eyes and let the crisp evening breeze touch her cheeks. Eventually, Atton spoke.

"So, how'd you get the credits?" he asked, referring to the massive amount of cash she'd returned with from Iziz.

"I just asked for them," replied Meetra, shrugging her shoulders. They made eye contact and Atton, sceptical, raised an eyebrow.

"You didn't do a little of this...?"

He wiggled his fingers, mimicking a mind trick.

"...Or some of this...?"

He motioned at his chest and made an exaggerated wink.

"Or surely not...?"

He finished with a gesture much cruder than his last and Meetra leaned over and gently slapped the back of his head.

"I asked for them, sheesh. Talia offered me these Jedi relics as payment and I was all 'Frag that, show me the credits, schutta,'" she said, in a facetious tone.

"Yeah, sure," Atton scoffed.

"Okay, not exactly," she admitted, "But I did ask for credits instead, and put forward a good case for them by mentioning that Tobin wrecked our ride."

"And she just gave them to you?"

"Never underestimate how persuasive gratitude can be, Atton," she replied, casually, then ripped one of the last remaining namana twists with her teeth, "Speaking of gratitude, I am grateful for sugar."

"How are you still eating those? I reached my limit about two hours ago and I still feel sick," said Atton, grimacing.

"I don't _have_ a sugar limit," said Meetra, voice all business, "See, this is why I don't allow candy on board. I'd never, ever stop eating it and we'd have to start calling our ship the Ebon Pork. It's a problem."

Atton snickered at this. Meetra's frame was slight at best.

"Atton. Thank you," she said when he stopped.

"For what?"

"Just...tonight. I know tomorrow we have to set off to Korriban and start this whole thing all over again, but...It was nice to be normal, even if it was only for a little while."

Atton nodded slowly as Meetra continued.

"You know, when I was younger, I never really wanted to be a Jedi. I just wanted to be like everyone else. Live somewhere like this, get married, have kids..." she trailed off, and her face looked almost regretful. Atton quirked his head back in surprise.

"Seriously?" he asked, incredulously.

Meetra's reverie broke immediately as she threw her head back, face split with laughter.

"_Space, no_. How can you be so cynical and so gullible at the same time, Atton Rand?"

"Schutta," dismissed Atton, rolling his eyes without malice.

Meetra reclined on the grass, hair sprawled amongst the blades and tried to find Eryon behind the thick blanket of cloud in the sky. Eventually, Atton finished his cigarette, and laid beside her. She told Atton about the earliest days of the war, when Revan took them all to Coruscant for supplies, how they had visited the Senate to make their intentions known and how in awe she had been, having never been to a real city before. She spoke of Revan's capital ship, of the massive hall with the glass ceiling and etched walls and velvet banners, and how she would meditate there with Eryon watching over her, and Coruscant sleeping below.

Atton wanted to tell her that he had been there, too. That he had seen it, too, but didn't. He stayed quiet, and listened, just like he had when Meetra and Canderous discussed their experiences at the Second Battle of Dxun, or when Meetra tried to pry from Kreia information on what happened to Revan after Malachor. His silence wasn't born of a desire to deceive, but an effort to see the events that had shaped his life through the eyes of another, in hopes it would help him to understand.

Eventually the clouds rolled in thicker and began to snarl. A fat drop of rain landed on Meetra's face, and then another on her shoulder. With a degree of hesitation, she acknowledged that they should head back before they getting caught by the impending storm. As they commenced the long walk, Atton implored Meetra to take a speeder and she refused. He challenged her, and she pulled out her usual list of excuses – it wasn't that far, they couldn't spare the credits, she needed the walk, but they all fell flat. Quietly, finally, she admitted she wasn't afraid of speeders, but of heights and to Atton it seemed so humble and so human; the kind of basic, simple fear to which a Jedi should be immune. He asked her to make an exception, just this once, and reluctantly she submitted.

They'd done this more than once before, and he'd been irritated by her fear, irritated by her pin-prick finger tips pushing in his ribs, but this time he sat behind her and made her take control. His left hand he kept protectively over hers, his right he pulled up under her breast and held her tightly, firmly, arm flat against the last faded remnants of the bruise he had inflicted. Beneath his hand he felt her heart's peal of panic and realised she was no different to him, not impervious to fear or doubt. A fox cornered by wolves. He kept his mouth close to her ear and told her when to brake and when to accelerate, when to lean and when to hug the curves. She complied, obediently, and let his presence slow her pulse and clear her head.

They arrived back before the storm broke, lashes and hair beaded with drips of stray rain. She thanked him, and he got a tight and slightly damp embrace for his troubles, before she bid him goodnight and retired to the room she shared with Visas and Mira. He rifled through his wallet to find his key card, and opened the door to his own room. He sat on the edge of the neatly turned down bed and as he began to pull off his boots, he thought over how good it had felt to be trusted by her despite everything, and resolved, from now on, to always take that risk as she had.


	20. Meetra's first time

**Chapter Twenty**

**_Every heart sings a song, incomplete, until another heart whispers back._**

Meetra tried to hide it, but it was hopeless. She was love struck, infatuated, smitten. She lived in the darkness of innocence and he inched right up behind her, tapped her on the shoulder and suddenly her whole world was illuminated, on fire.

He was the dark horse amongst all those she travelled with, and she liked that. He was handsome with a strong jaw, and strong eyes, with masculine hands that wielded his lightsaber with an aggression that excited her. There were so many of them in that small ship but against the odds, they often found themselves alone with each other. They would dance around each other, with charged compliments, and sly, lingering glances.

One night, with a soft tapping at her door, he was there. He sat on her bed and let the truth spill out, and eventually she found herself, on her back, with him pressing down on her, telling her things that made the knot in her chest grow larger and more tangled. It was her first time, and she was so nervous, she could barely speak. It was painful, but he did his best to mitigate it, tried his best to be gentle with her, loving to her.

For two months after this, that fire blossomed and burned between them. Their affair did not escape the attention of those around them but without a confession from either, there was little choice but to ignore it. They trained together, ate together, fought together, discussed Jedi philosophy and their favourite Holovids together. He told her everything her heart yearned to hear. That she was divine, lovely, pretty. Pretty, perfect Meetra. _His_ Meetra.

Then one day, just as ordinary as any other, he tired of her.

He didn't want to talk to her anymore.

He didn't tell her she was beautiful anymore.

He didn't want to be alone with her anymore.

They would still sleep together, but his touch lost its tenderness. Eventually he didn't even look at her anymore. One day, she demanded to know if he loved her, and he, very curtly, told her no. For two days, she locked herself in her room and wept. She refused to eat, and couldn't sleep. One by one, the many she travelled with would come and attempt to comfort her, if only because her withdrawal was holding everything up, but she would refuse to see them.

One evening, quite late, as she lay on her bed, face still puffy and red from her last bout of tears, there was a knock. She turned the page of the book she was reading and ignored it. The door was locked. Whoever it was would go away eventually.

She startled as the door slid open. A familiar figure lurked in the doorway, but not the one she wanted to see.

"May I come in?" he asked, voice gentle but firm.

"Looks like you already did," she said, sullenly.

"Desperate times call for desperate hacking of your door, Meetra."

He walked over, and tapped her on the leg. She moved in response and he sat down next to her in the newly vacated space.

"What are you reading?"

"_Trampeta's Star Guide_," she said, flashing the cover of the book.

"Oh yeah? Any suggestions for where we should head when we get some time off?"

"Not really. Though, Trampeta strongly recommends avoiding Taris. Says you'll sooner get robbed or eaten by rakghouls than find somewhere that sells a stiff drink."

"I'll try to avoid it, then," smiled Revan. A silence fell between them and he sighed, "Look. Alek's not a bad guy, Meetra."

Meetra's eyes fell to the floor and she pursed her lips.

"That said," he continued, "He's really kind of a bishwag, sometimes. You're too young for this. I should have said something and he should have known better."

"It's only five years," said Meetra, defensively.

"The space between sixteen and twenty-one is so wide, it's almost impossible to cross, Mee, and the perspective from your side makes the gap seem deceptively small. You're still a child," he said, voice quiet and even and kind.

"It hurts," she said meekly, because she didn't know what else to say and it was the only truth she knew at that moment. As the words travelled up and outwards, they grazed her throat and made it ache.

Revan heard her silent plea, and drew her to his chest, holding her delicate figure still against a tide of rending sobs, the kind that only the first fragile cracks in an unblemished heart can cause. He waited, patiently, until he felt her breath even.

"Arren told me you want to go back to Dantooine."

Meetra nodded her head against his sternum, and Revan pushed her away gently so he could look her in the eye.

"I want you to stay."

"Why? What good am I? Didn't you just say that I'm a child?" she spat, suddenly defensive.

"As far as love and Alek are concerned, yes. But as a Jedi, no."

"Don't lie, Revan. I'm still a Padawan. I'm the _only _Padawan here. I wanted to take my trials last spring and they said no and besides, Vrook never passed up a chance to let me know how mediocre my -"

"Don't fish for compliments, Meetra," interrupted Revan.

"I'm not," she frowned.

"You are. In your very short lifetime, you've already received more praise than most do their entire lives, and you're focusing on a few small criticisms. It's more obnoxious than humble, Meetra."

Meetra sat silent, petulant and pouting. Revan sighed, almost frustrated. He was a man gifted with an impressively long temper and nigh infinite patience, but dealing with tempestuous teenage girls was a skill he had yet to hone.

"What do you want from life, Meetra?"

Meetra's face softened as she considered this question. She had never been asked this before, but thought about it often and knew the answer instinctively.

"I want to be in love, with someone that loves me back, like, _really_ loves me, you know. Like, a soulmate, or something. And I want to be a mother," she said, with a stroke of defiance as if she was expecting reproach.

"If that's what you want, you need to stay and fight with us, because if the Mandalorians take down the Republic, you'll never get the chance," said Revan, as earnest as he'd ever been.

"You're not going to lecture me about my lack of dedication to the Order? No spiels about attachment?" said Meetra, raising her eyebrows.

"I don't know if you've noticed, Mee, but I'm not exactly huge on the Order's rules, myself. If that's what you want, then that's what I want for you. Just uh, maybe not with Squint," he said and gave her a sneaky smile.

Meetra smiled back and wiped away the last of her tears with her sleeve.

"He really hates it when you call him that."

"I know," said Revan, grinning, "That's why I do it."

Meetra let out a tiny laugh, then sighed. She studied Revan's face, biting her lip.

"Revan?"

"Yes, Meetra?"

"I'm...struggling. It's more than just Alek. Not having a Master is harder than I thought it would be," she said, silently asking a question.

"Well, I guess I was in the market for a Padawan anyway," said Revan, rolling his eyes in a friendly fashion and briefly touching the side of her face with a gentle hand. "It means you'll need to deal with how you feel about Alek, though, because he goes where I go. I know he's done little to make that easy but...you play the hand you're dealt, you got that?"

Meetra hesitated only briefly before nodding.

"I'll do my best."

"Good girl. Listen, I'm starved. Do you want to come have something to eat?"

Meetra nodded again, much more enthusiastically this time. As often happened when she was stressed, she had completely forgotten about eating over the last few days.

"I should get changed first."

"Alright," acknowledged Revan, giving her another brief squeeze around her shoulders before standing. He headed for the door but stopped when Meetra spoke again.

"Revan...Are we ever going home again?"

"When this is all over, that's exactly what we're going to do. I promise," he replied, tone sombre and reassuring, "I'll see you in a bit?"

"Yeah," replied Meetra, and watched as Revan left.

When the door was closed, she sighed a heavy sigh that caught in her throat. She looked around the room. It was small, and unimpressive, but impeccably neat. She shared it with another Jedi, not much older than herself, called Nisotsa. In light of Meetra's foul mood the last few days, Nisotsa had stayed with Cari and a Jedi from Coruscant that Meetra barely knew called Rhyssa. To ease her anxiety, Meetra had taken it upon herself to reorganise Nisotsa's belongings, and she realised now that she was likely to be scolded for it when Nisotsa returned. Momentarily she debated whether she should attempt to return the room to how it was, then decided she didn't care.

Slowly, she changed out of the clothes she had worn for days, and into something clean. Though she knew she shouldn't, Meetra thought of Alek and tried to understand how one word could defy time and cut weeks and months of happiness to shreds. She felt a tightness in her chest and realised this was a wound that would one day heal but would always bear a scar, and there wasn't a single thing she could do to change that.


	21. Not equals anymore

this chapter is for kotorqueen, who loves malak so much, that she made me love him too ❤

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-One**

**_Lose yourself in action, lest you wither in despair._**

Revan had a story he liked to tell, and Meetra loved to hear.

Two women, worlds apart, both give birth to baby girls.

The first woman dies in labour, and leaves her new daughter all alone, an orphan. The baby is brought to a cold and crowded children's home and is found a few weeks later by a Jedi, and taken to Dantooine.

The second woman is healthy and happy, and her husband takes their six year old son to the hospital to meet his new sister. Another Jedi assessing newborns for Force-sensitivity passes over the baby girl, and takes the boy instead.

On Dantooine, the boy is homesick. He cries for his mother, for his father. He weeps for the baby sister he never got to hold. One day, he confides in a Consular blessed with a kind ear, and she takes pity.

She brings to him the baby orphan in her care, and puts her in his arms. One tiny body holds another, diminutive frail fingers wrap around a single one of his and the boy does not feel so alone anymore.

And that's how Revan met Meetra.

They had a sound bond, and were perhaps as close to a brother and sister as two unrelated people can be. She wasn't exactly a friend – Revan rarely wanted to hang out with her, didn't want her around when he was with his peers, and she was the same, really. But they enjoyed occasional quiet moments together, confided in each other secrets and fears, sought solace in one another's company when they were lost. They would tease each other, bicker and argue, and their relationship would stretch but never break. Revan was fiercely protective of her, in the way reserved for little sisters, and she saw him as a hero, in the way reserved for big brothers.

That was why, when Revan objected to the relationship flowering between Meetra and Malak, Malak reluctantly broke it off with her. He didn't want to at first, but slowly realised that Revan's reasons were valid. She was too self-centred, too attached, too distracted by Malak.

She did not seem to understand what it truly meant to be Jedi; that it was a calling, a religion, a duty. And when she agreed to go to war, she had done so as an act of teen rebellion against stuffy parental rules, rather than the fervent desire to protect and defend the innocent citizens of the Republic that drove the rest of them. Malak was deeply devoted to the Code, and could not reconcile or understand this. His feelings for her had been intense, but not enough to blind him. He could clearly see that she lacked the maturity to handle a relationship; he could not earnestly fight Revan on the matter. With great difficulty, he had withdrawn from her, hoping that by pushing her away she would lose interest. However, his actions only seemed to stoke the flame in her heart, and eventually, he had simply no option left but to be cruel. She took it hard, like he expected, and Revan had wasted no time acting white knight, as always. It bothered Malak, but he was used to coming second behind Revan, and said nothing.

Two years had passed since then, and more had changed than just his name. The lustful affection he held for Meetra had been eroded by distance and discipline. The burden of war, a brief fling with a woman by the name of Jarael and the looming threat of Revan's disapproval had helped, too. Meanwhile, Revan had taken Meetra as a Padawan, and soon he was spending more time with her than he did with any of the others, Malak included. Revan nurtured her in a way her previous Masters hadn't, by being exceedingly strict while generously rewarding success. He never attempted to hold her back, but rather pushed her beyond her limits, creating new ones in the process. Her command of the Force had become more even and reliable, her swordsmanship had improved dramatically, and many of her more knee-jerk emotional impulses had been smothered by Revan, leaving behind a mind that was calm and tactical and strategic. Malak could see this, but was still surprised when Revan had taken a third of his fleet, and a third of Malak's, and put them under Meetra's command. The jealousy that slowly took root in his heart was a constant source of confusion for Malak, for he couldn't determine whether it was aimed at Meetra or Revan.

It came to a head late one evening when a dilemma arose. Malak was already vaguely aware of the situation – the Mandalorians had broken a cease-fire and stormed a camp where Talvon Esan, a fellow Revanchist, had been coordinating supplies and emergency evacuation for gravely wounded Republic soldiers. He'd been taken prisoner, but they could not discover where. Their forces in that sector were scattered, and stretched, but Malak had his own problems and could not spare a hand. Meetra and Revan had devised a plan. Few knew their faces – at the very beginning of their involvement in the war, Revan had taken to wearing a Mandalorian mask he'd found on Cathar, and after taking Meetra as a Padawan, he'd forced on her a costume that obscured her features, her hair colour, even her gait, which she'd had no choice but to alter to accommodate the heavy, cumbersome headdress she wore. They decided to use their anonymity to their advantage, and placed themselves in the next camp they expected to be raided, dressed as unassuming soldiers. The first part had gone off without a hitch and they had indeed been taken prisoner, Malak knew that much. But he was surprised to receive an urgent holocall from a Republic Lieutenant, telling him more than a week had passed without any contact from Meetra or Revan.

Malak, who had never been anything but brave, impassable, unshakeable, was struck by a fear so powerful he could barely fathom it. His better judgement suffocated, he made a move that was not at all calculated or advantageous and abandoned his post to find them. It hadn't been a smart move; it had taken almost eight days to reach the outer rim world where they'd been held and Revan and Meetra had not only escaped but recovered Esan and were back at work by the time he arrived. Instead of heroic fanfare, his reception had been flaccid, and Revan was angered by having to contend with a string of messages from distressed officers and lieutenants who had been left bereft by Malak's impromptu journey. Only two hours after he had docked with Revan's capital ship, Malak was already leaving, still steaming from a heated discussion with Revan, where they had both admonished one another for their recklessness but failed to reach an understanding. An unsatisfying outcome that was becoming commonplace when they disagreed, these days.

Malak stood in the docking bays, trying to find calm in the monotony of the ship's gentle whirring. He was waiting for the airlock to open, so he could board the freighter he'd docked here earlier. He heard approaching foot steps and opened his eyes to see Meetra. She wasn't wearing the ridiculous uniform, and instead just a simple pair of black slacks and a white camisole. He hadn't seen her face plain and unadorned in more than a year, and was surprised to see how worn out she looked. Her hair, that once hung just below her breast, had been cut extremely short, and while it wasn't unflattering, it seemed to change her features.

"Malak," she said, a faint surprise in her voice.

"I didn't realise you were here," he said. The air was tense and Meetra had stopped walking mid-stride. Her foot hung in the air for a moment, before she placed it down and squared her shoulders.

"I was just leaving," she said, casually, with a vague wave of her hand towards one of the docking modules, "I had some...business, with Revan, that required I see him in person."

Malak clucked his tongue in acknowledgement, nodding slowly, and an uncomfortable silence fell between them.

"I overheard..." started Meetra, deliberately truncating her sentence, as if to encourage Malak to open up to her. Instead he stayed quiet, staring at her blankly. When it became clear he wasn't going to reply, she continued, "I appreciate your concern, if it means anything. But it was a foolish move, one that endangered more people than it could have helped. I can't say I approve any more than Revan does."

"I wasn't worried about earning your approval, Meetra," he said, voice stiff.

"Abandoning your station was stupid, Malak. We both know it," she said dismissively, as she placed a hand on her hip.

"And your plan was worse. What the hell were you thinking?" he asked, narrowing his eyes. The charge in his words did not translate to his tone, that remained as even as it had been before.

"I was thinking that we didn't have the resources or the intel to even begin thinking about a full-scale attack, especially not to rescue one Jedi. Simultaneously, he was not an acceptable loss, and needed to be recovered. I did what I had to do."

"So this stupidity was born of your mind?"

"I don't appreciate your wording, but I'll bite. Yes, it was my plan," she said, adjusting her posture defiantly.

"I should have known as much," he said, letting his eyes slide out of contact with hers and choosing instead to stare blankly ahead.

"Fancy elaborating?" she asked, coolly.

"You're selfish, Meetra. Always have been. Your strategies consistently revolve around what is quickest, or easiest, or flashiest. You're not concerned with how your actions affect others."

Meetra stifled a laugh, and it made Malak clench his teeth in irritation.

"I do value your opinion, but I cannot see the sense in that. Revan and I risked our lives to rescue a comrade. Where lies the selfishness in that?"

"It lies in not having the forethought to realise that your lives are more important than one Jedi. If we lose Revan, we lose the Republic. Can you not see that?" he demanded. Though he'd tried to hold it back, his voice had risen steadily as he spoke.

"Would you still have a problem if I had gone alone, then?" she asked, and it was just a question, a curiosity but it made Malak uncomfortable.

"Yes," he said, letting a shadow of anger cross his face, "Because for a reason that I cannot comprehend, Revan has made us equals, and so it is from very first-hand experience that I know, in situations like that, a person of your rank must practice restraint. Esan would have held out, and there would have been a safer, more opportune time to mount a proper rescue. Your position requires patience, Meetra, and you have _none._"

She fixed him with a stare that was made of steel. His spiel had begun quietly, but he was shouting by the end and it disturbed him that he couldn't find it within himself to hold back. Meetra, fleet of foot, closed the gap between them in a flash, until she was standing very close to him. He stood at least a foot taller than her, easily, but anger manifested in her small frame and though she was hardly intimidating, she did not seem weak, at that moment. She leaned up, balancing on her toes.

"Cowardice is patience that has been allowed to languish, Squint. Give it long enough, and we won't be equals anymore," she sneered. Malak did not react to her, but merely held her gaze, expression scornful. Eventually she seemed satisfied, dropped back on her heels, and turned to walk away.

From seemingly nowhere, he was struck by an impulse he couldn't ignore, and he reached out a hand and hooked it around her elbow. With a forceful tug, he turned her around and kissed her with an ardour and agony he hadn't known existed inside him. For Meetra, whose feelings for him had never faded but merely been locked away, this presented no quandary and she didn't hesitate to kiss him back.

There were things about Meetra that Malak could never understand, and his sustained attraction to her was one of them. He and Revan had discussed on more than one occasion her unusual ability to form bonds with almost every Force-sensitive she came across, and simply bend them to her will without wasting any real effort on persuading them. It was plausible that was what was happening now, but Malak couldn't find room in his head to consider it. A yearning took him and it was so insane and frantic that there seemed no possible way to ease it.

In desperation he spread his fingers over her back and pressed them hard against her, lifting her petite body, trying to bring it as close as possible to his. Her own hands knew instinctively his weakest spot – a tiny stretch at the nape of his neck that she gripped with slender fingers. All he could hear was his pulse's frenzied beating in his ear and the raspy scratches of taught gasps pulled over youthful skin. But the moment was more fragile than it seemed, and she pierced it so easily it almost seemed deliberate.

"Oh, Alek. I love you, Alek."

The words dripped from her mouth like honey but were sour in his ear. Behind her bravado, she was still the same stupid little girl she had been two years ago, and Malak knew it. He hadn't meant for this to happen and he couldn't allow it to go further.

"Don't. Just...don't," he said, voice dark. When he heard the gentle pluck of her lips opening to protest, he immediately set her back on the ground. The airlock had long ago cleared, and Malak turned on his heel, intent on leaving before she had a chance to complain.

He didn't expect it, but she just stood there. Malak stood inside the tiny room, slamming the release, eager to be far away from Meetra. As the door slid closed, he looked at her. She was pathetic, thin, tired, and her eyes were glassy with the beginnings of tears.

Malak didn't care though, he just wanted to be gone.


	22. Pain, hunger, betrayal

**Chapter Twenty-Two**

**_Woman is at once apple and serpent._**

In Meetra's life, she had experienced two great loves, at the time so deep she felt none could ever match them, and later so painful she never wanted to try.

The first was Revan, who held her affectionately and stared lovingly into her eyes as he broke her back over his knee and spackled her shattered spine back together with ambition and callousness. His acerbic touch wore away her morality as rust does to iron. The second was Malak, who left stains so indelible on her heart they could never wash clean. Each night, in solitude, she would scrub and scratch at these blemishes until her hands and soul were bloodied but it made no difference. Together, these men slowly ripped a hole inside her, and it consumed her identity. She was a feather in a hurricane, and she could find no way to escape.

Meetra would sit before her mirror and inspect her face, not in vanity but desperation. In her face – her front teeth that over lapped slightly, her heavy-lidded grey-blue eyes, her crooked nose, her widow's peak – she tried to find her mother, for that was what Meetra needed more than anything else. And when the futility of this exercise began to make her chest ache, Meetra would try to find instead her own daughter, the daughter she was determined to one day have. She would imagine how this daughter would feel in her arms, and all the loving, tender words of advice and encouragement she would give; all the things her own mother never got the chance to say.

Arren Kae, a deeply respected and powerful Jedi who had once been Revan's Master, took to Meetra and the two developed a kinship that partially satiated Meetra's profound longing for maternal nurturing. Kae was primarily drawn to Meetra by her unusual abilities, and slowly, just as Revan did, she manipulated Meetra, forcing her down a path she had never wanted to travel. Meetra, too young and desperate to be loved, did not notice, and soon she found her heart and soul marred further, and her true self more lost than ever.

Kae emphasised to Meetra that she would never be the strongest Jedi, would never jump the furthest or strike the hardest, but that she had great potential to wield a power no others could. It was through clandestine tutelage away from Revan's protective eye, that Kae gently grew the most feared of Meetra's natural talents and after many months there came an afternoon when Meetra finally reaped the first fruit of her efforts, tart and not quite ripe but so satisfying after what felt like a life time of hunger.

It was the moment Malak grabbed her arm and spun her around, when she became a mirror and he kissed her with her own reflected feelings like they were his own. She was not careful, and though he could not vocalise it, he sensed something was wrong and put a stop to it. But she heard the bell of truth that day. That one incident started an obsession.

It was difficult, at first. She had always made these bonds unconsciously, and she had no idea how to bond with someone on purpose. But soon, she broke in the soles of these new shoes by walking all over foolish Republic soldiers, and eventually she had divined and perfected a method. She found a way to crawl inside the heart of any man or woman, make them throw their lives away at her whim, make them worship her, make them do anything she wanted. The Masters at Dantooine had always been hesitant to allow her to advance, and it was with a degree of smugness that she acknowledged to herself that they may have had a point as silly men impaled themselves on the swords of Mandalorians to compete for her love. So intoxicating was this power, that it held open the hole made by Revan and Malak, and it demanded more and more, craving attention, adulation and sacrifice from all she came across.

Groping in the darkness of longing, she had found a tiny thread and pulled it, and her moral fibre started to unravel. She began to fall, just like those around her, but she could not see it. She took these shadowed steps out of love for Malak, and when her abilities had matured, she found a way to put herself back in his embrace, whether he wanted her there or not. His affinity with the Force only made him more susceptible to her unorthodox seduction, and in the months leading up to Malachor V, he worshipped her just as she had wanted all along. If Revan knew what she was doing, he said nothing, but simply tolerated what she was becoming.

Malak was enslaved by her, and there was nothing he could do to break free. He rarely seemed to know it, but Meetra did, and it didn't bother her nearly as much as it should have. She was committing a crime that no woman should abide by, but it seemed victimless to her. She felt she deserved Malak's love, simply by virtue of wanting it, and if he needed to be persuaded to give it, then that was just too bad for him. Sometimes, as he moved above her, she would see the emptiness in his eyes and knew he did not love her and never truly could this way. But she had replaced the record in his heart with her own composition and she was willing to ignore this emptiness as long as he was powerless to say anything. She was too young, too selfish, too attached to Malak.

A time came, only a month before Malachor, when she looked in the mirror and all she saw was blackness. She did not recognise her face, nor her mother's face or daughter's face or anything that resembled any of them. She was broken and could not put herself back together because she did not know when or where the pieces had been lost.

Though she couldn't know it, it would be the Mass Shadow Generator that would both kill and save Meetra and its effect began to render long before she gave that fateful nod. It was just a machine, but it was an abomination as well. When Revan had conceived of it, it had been inert, immune from morality, but when it was finished, the questions began to roll in. No matter how they argued it, using it went against the Code. They would debate it – were they still Jedi? Did the Code still apply? What did it mean to be Revanchist, and did it exclude them from wearing that ancient mantle? They knew that in going to war, they had defied the Council, not the Code – the institution, not the philosophy, but still the question grew larger and more complex the longer they worked at it.

In one corner, stood Meetra, enthusiastically in favour of using the Mass Shadow Generator. She put together strategies like puzzle pieces but never stopped to see the picture the faces made. In her mind, they needed only one man standing to win the war, and winning was all that mattered. She forced her fleet to fight with attrition, and they did so because her influence was so hypnotic and unbearable. She did not care about losses, not anymore.

In the opposite corner, stood Malak, vehemently opposed. His oath to take up arms only to defend and protect was his bond, his life, and he did not break it easily. He could not abide by deliberately killing their own men, when he had strived so hard to mitigate losses and see as many of the men and women entrusted to him safely back home to their families as he possibly could. He fought with honour, with valour, and he did care; sometimes it seemed he was the only one left that did.

And between each of them, was Revan, undecided, his motivations a mystery, and there was not a single person in the galaxy, not Meetra, not Malak, no one who could ever truly know them.

Eventually, it was decided that Meetra would fight beside Revan planet-side, and Malak would remain in the skies, and it would be his choice alone to decide if the Generator was activated. This seemed a suitable arrangement, and Malak agreed to it, secretly knowing that he would refuse to make such a call, and he would betray Revan if necessary to uphold this decision.

However, as they made preparations to leave, Revan received a vision of Meetra dying on the battlefield, and though he did not share this with them, because of it he requested that Meetra and Malak travel in his company. Together, the three journeyed to Malachor V and Revan revealed to them that he wanted to reverse their positions, with Malak on the ground, and Meetra's finger on the trigger. Malak was angered by this but Revan insisted.

Meetra extended her influence to sway Malak but she pulled too hard and Malak felt the chains she had bound him in. A rage stirred within him and seeing no other option to stop this madness, he attacked Revan. The two duelled, violently, and when Revan cut a deep gash through Malak's thigh, Meetra became suddenly fearful that one of them might kill the other. She was forced to act and she used the other unnerving skill that came naturally to her, and severed their connections to the Force.

Revan understood something then, and infuriated by what she had done, swiftly crossed the room and struck her so hard it made her ears ring. The love she felt for Malak was vast and she had allowed herself to forget that he did not really love her back, so she looked to him, eyes wet and face bruising, expecting him to defend her. The look of contempt on Malak's face frightened her more than Revan then, and she realised that by cutting him off from the Force, she had broken the bond that allowed her to control him. In its absence, Malak saw exactly what she had become, and all that she had done.

She was blind to it, but in a few days' time, Malachor would show her, too.


	23. She's not interested in you

**Chapter Twenty-****Three**

**_War is cruelty and none can make it gentle._**

"We shouldn't have let her go in alone."

Atton rolled his eyes. He and Mical were deep in the belly of a shyrack cave on Korriban, awaiting Meetra's return after she had ventured beyond a thick barrier of Force energy that they had been unable to pass. Here the air was stale and still, and its chill was as unpleasant on their cheeks as its stench was in their noses. They had made a small camp fire earlier in their wait, but they had quickly run out of material to burn and now instead their faces were bathed with the blue and yellow glow from their lightsabers, standing upright, hilts buried in the soil. They barely held the darkness at bay, and as the shadows encroached on them so did fear for Meetra's welfare.

"We didn't '_let_' her do anything, you moron. Did you hear her ask for permission?"

"Your hostility is unwarranted, Atton, I am only concerned for Meetra," replied Mical, eyes narrowing, "I thought you would be, too."

"Well, I'm not. She knows how to take care of herself," said Atton, defensively.

The awkward silence that had occupied most of the last three days returned and the two sat there on the dusty ground, avoiding each other's gaze. Atton was lying. It was true he believed she could look after herself, and he knew they couldn't have done a thing to stop her going in there alone. But he was worried for her, in such a way that stopped him from going back to the _Ebon Hawk_, even though he was cold, and hungry, and exceedingly sore from sleeping on the ground. The others had trickled through, one by one, offering to take their place, but Mical and Atton were in a stand-off and neither would budge while Meetra was still missing.

"I never said she was unable to take care of herself, but she is still alone and we do not know what kind of danger she faces," said Mical, resuming the conversation as if it hadn't stopped.

Atton was sick to death of talking to Mical, so he just sat there, eyes fixed on the ground, but his gaze unfocused.

"I haven't been able to sense her for more than a day," pushed Mical, after another minute of silence had passed.

Atton exhaled hard through clenched teeth, and time continued to tick by, marked by the echoing drips of rancid water somewhere down below them.

"Something is wrong, Atton. You aren't strong in the Force, not enough to be sure. Trust my guidance, something is wrong," beseeched Mical again, with a distinct note of urgency.

"Oh, shove your guidance, Blondie," said Atton suddenly, his voice beginning to pitch, "You couldn't Force push your way into a black hole."

"I am not your enemy, Atton," replied Mical.

"Well, we're certainly not friends. Why don't you just run back to the ship, pretty boy? I'm sure you have another report to turn in on _the exile_, by now, anyway."

"How many times do you need to be told that Meetra is aware that I work for the Republic? If it is not an issue for her, I don't see why it should be for you."

"Because I don't trust you, that's why. No one just spits out their worst secret without hesitation. You're giving away one secret to hide another, and just because it's fooling Meetra, doesn't mean it's fooling me."

"I am not trying to fool anybody, Atton. I have told both of you nothing but the truth."

"Yeah, well. I still don't trust you."

This time Mical sighed with frustration. Atton rolled his eyes again. Both questioned what in hell had possessed Meetra when she decided to bring the two of them along with her; she knew they were incapable of getting along with one another. When Atton had intentionally injured Meetra during _that_ sparring session before Dxun, it had rippled through their small group and sullied Atton's already thread-bare relationships with all of them, but none so much as Mical. Since then he'd made little effort to hide his disapproval of the closeness between Atton and Meetra, and he'd become irritatingly protective of her. It was starting to seem unlikely Atton would ever again get a moment alone with Meetra without Blondie eventually showing up to ruin it.

Atton wasn't such a fool that he couldn't see Mical had feelings for her, and he felt threatened even though he was fairly certain of where Meetra's heart rested. Still, without anything solid to go on, jealousy and hostility towards Mical was at an all time high and he had no ammunition to put Mical back in his place. The interruptions were wearing Atton down, as the tiny moments they shared became scarcer. It infuriated Atton because it wasn't like he could barge in on their time together. They did things Atton wasn't comfortable doing in the company of others, like meditation. In fact, he seemed to have spent most of the last month lurking outside the port-side dormitories, watching in agonising envy. Mira had said something just before they reached Korriban, and Atton had brushed her off. Still, she had a point. Maybe Meetra did have enough problems without Atton jostling for her affection. Atton didn't know, he just wanted Mical to go and not come back.

"You are too possessive, Atton. It will lead you down a dark path, and you'll take her with you, if you're not careful."

Atton laughed. It was a hollow, bitter laugh, born of disbelief.

"You're one to talk."

"Excuse me?" asked Mical, coldly, and they made eye contact. Atton was still incredulous, but Mical looked nettled and maybe even angry.

"You can't be that dumb, Blondie," challenged Atton and he could tell by Mical's expression that his words were understood.

"I am respectful of the Meetra's responsibilities. I would never do anything to jeopardise her," began Mical and the icy edge in his voice almost made Atton uncomfortable, "I _love_ her, Atton. Can you say that? Truthfully?"

Atton looked away. Of course he could say that. Theoretically. But the words didn't seem to want to come out.

"You're a drain on her. She thinks of you like a wounded animal that she can nurse back to health," said Mical, voice dangerously low.

"You know, we were doing just fine before you came along. What makes you think she needs you around, anyway?"

"I could ask the same of you, Atton. I think she would fare a great deal easier without you, altogether."

"Frag off, Mical. She's not interested in you."

"I've known her longer than you have, Atton. And I'll know her long after you've gotten bored and abandoned her."

Rage's fierce fingers curled around Atton's throat, but he was determined not to let it show on his face. Really, what he wanted was to just get up and break Blondie's pretty face with his fists. He wanted to lose his temper, wanted to shout that he knew her in ways Mical could never, like how her mouth tasted, how her neck smelt, how her breasts fit perfectly in his hands. He wanted Mical to know how dull her eyes grew when they had those stupid little discussions about the Force that Mical probably cherished. It all seemed tawdry and worthless though, because the more time that passed, the more it seemed that Meetra's rejection wasn't as malleable as he had originally thought. So he stayed quiet.

Mical seemed willing to let the conversation die at last. Atton's mind wandered back to that fearful room devoted to wondering what would happen if Meetra never made it back. He'd been trying to listen out for her but Mical's presence made him nervous. It was true that Atton wasn't as strong in the Force as Mical. He wasn't really as powerful as any of them, and a juvenile fear of embarrassment and failure generally stopped him from trying unless he was by himself. He desperately wanted Mical to leave so he could make a more focused attempt to reach out for her, but it wasn't happening, so instead he just tried to push the anxiety from his mind. He consoled himself with the thought that if something had happened to her, Kreia would almost certainly have known and said something by now.

The sounds down here were strange. The passages were so winding and empty that every noise travelled further than it should. It was unnerving and the constant dripping in the valley below them was beginning to make Atton feel insane. Restless, he stood and started pacing, the way Meetra always did.

"You feel it, too," said Mical with a degree of finality, watching Atton from the corner of his eye.

"Of course I fragging do, you beek-monkey!" shouted Atton, finally at the end of his tether as far as tolerance of Mical went. He tossed up an annoyed hand, "And I'd be risking the aneurysm to get past that stupid barrier if I thought it would make a difference. But it wouldn't work, so unless you have a better plan, why don't you just shut up?"

"There's really no need to -"

"Hi," Meetra's voice silenced both men immediately, and they turned to her in unison. She had finally emerged, and though she was standing, she did not look well. There were deep shadows under her eyes and she was pale and clammy. Both rushed to her but Atton was already standing and got there first. She ducked away from his hand and briefly, he saw a strange look in her eyes before she closed them, clearly attempting to brace herself against a dizzy rush. He wanted to hold her, and tried but she placed a hand against his chest, and pushed him away. Her touch was gentle but it may as well have been ten tonne of durasteel slamming shut in Atton's face, because as she did it, she turned her body towards Mical and let him take a portion of her weight. Mical wasted no time inspecting her for injuries. Despite the fact that it was initiated by Mical, this met with Atton's approval, so he didn't protest. Carefully, Mical used a thumb and forefinger to pry open Meetra's eyelids.

"Did you hit your head? I think you have a concussion," enquired Mical and any coldness in his voice was gone without a trace and replaced with affectionate concern. This turn around seemed almost vile to Atton. Maybe he wasn't exactly a gentleman, but at least he was honest about it.

"I don't know...No, I don't...know," replied Meetra but her words were disjointed and barely audible, "Can you just..._just_..."

"We need to get you back to the _Hawk_," said Mical decisively, "Can you walk?"

Meetra nodded, but Atton could tell something was very wrong with her. She stood up straight and began to walk, but almost immediately her head drooped into her hand and because it seemed she was about to lose her balance, Mical grabbed her shoulders.

"M'fine, m'fine, just...don't..." she murmured, shrugging away, but Mical didn't let her go and Atton became immediately defensive on her behalf.

"Back off, Blondie. She said she's fine," spoke Atton forcefully, letting his intense dislike of Mical leech through into his voice.

"I'm trying to help her, Atton," responded Mical, through gritted teeth, clearly no more fond of Atton than Atton was of him.

"I don't care. Don't touch her," hissed Atton, eyes as dark as the caverns surrounding them. Mical bristled, and looked as though he was about to deliver a scathing reply when their bickering was interrupted, again.

"Stop it. Just... Force, please just stop. I don't want help from either of you. Just go. Just go, and, and I'll catch up with you," said Meetra, words quick and voice tense, her breath ragged. Atton and Mical immediately forgot their quarrel with one another, and instead stood there, stunned and unsure of what to do next. Meetra slumped, then she dropped to her knees like a tonne of stresscrete. Atton moved to put a hand on her shoulder, but she batted it away and in a voice that was frigid and almost hateful, said "Don't."

Atton didn't have time to feel offended or hurt by this, because she passed out only seconds later. He caught her before her head hit the ground and drew her close, then looked up at Mical.

"I've got her. You get the sabers," said Atton, serious and commanding in a way he rarely allowed himself to be and for once, Mical seemed willing to agree.


	24. He lied

**Cha****pter Twenty-****Four**

**_Fear is the mother of morality._**

Black velvet slid soundlessly over durasteel flooring as Meetra Surik – Revanchist Surik the Impavid – walked with purpose down the wide, echoing halls of Revan's ship. This cold metal palace, financed by the blood of Republic soldiers, was what Revan called home, now. It seemed such a far cry from the tiny, cramped shuttle she and a handfull of others had all clambered into four scant years earlier, full of promise and hope and excitement. They gambled their souls at Revan's beck and without hesitation, flung themselves unto the breach.

It had always been easy to find nobility in their actions. They turned the tide of the war so quickly and effortlessly. They were heroes, and the Republic treated them accordingly, with credits and credence and troops. They weren't mere Jedi, but Revanchist. Ruthless, strong, unbeatable. Essentially, the war was over now. Late last year, at Malachor V, they had struck down Mandalore, leader of the Mandalorians, and utterly decimated his troops. Afterwards, without delay, Revan and Malak had taken a large portion of the Republic fleet to Rekkiad, to chase down the dregs. They had not asked Meetra to come. Indeed, she hadn't seen either of them in many months, not since she had intervened in a violent argument between the two shortly before the battle at Malachor. Revan had still been issuing her orders, but via holocall rather than in person.

Now, finally, he had returned and her presence was requested. Her feet carried her dutifully, but she was frightened. The catalyst for their victory, the Mass Shadow Generator, designed to tear Malachor asunder and destroy all caught in its wake, had destroyed her, too. It was over in minutes, but for her, it was so much longer. At first, there was nothing but the screams of defiance of millions of lives, extinguished at her whim. Then soon, she too felt that deadly pull, so strong she could not withstand it. The Force had opened a channel for her victims to drag her down. Tethered to them all, she pulled back with equal power and became frozen in time at the event horizon. She broke in half once, and then again, and again, until each atom tore from atom and everything she was and everything she had done was stretched out before her. A million miles of her sins and she had no option but to look upon them for millennia. In reality, her body had screamed and then convulsed, and her staff had gathered around her in concern. But in her mind, she was alone, and by the time it ended, she no longer had any concept of who she was, could not comprehend what had happened. She did not know it, and would dispute it, but she was lucky to have survived such an intense trauma at all. Now, there was nothing left in her but fear. She did not feel heroic. She did not feel noble. And she did not feel the Force.

In Revan's absence, she had been tasked with overseeing relief efforts, and though she had done her best, she was struggling. On the Force, she had relied and without it, she could not trust any of her decisions. She dared not interact directly with her subordinates, afraid that they would sense what had happened. What she most sorely wanted was guidance, but there was none left to give it. Arren Kae had accidentally been slain by Meetra herself by way of the Generator. Revan was indisposed, as was Malak, though even if he was available, he would most surely refuse her, after what she had done to him.

The ship was nauseatingly quiet, the only sound being the thud of her boots, and the click-clacking of the armed guards that lined the halls as they stood to attention in response to her presence. This monstrously large vessel had once amazed her, but now it filled her with dread. When she arrived at the bridge, Revan and Malak were waiting patiently. Malak made eye contact with her only briefly, and it was clear that he was disgusted by her presence. As for Revan, it was impossible to read him behind the imposing mask he had worn since they had found it on Cathar, many years ago. Submission was not in her nature, but terror pushed her down, and she knelt solemnly before them.

"Master."

"Surik. Get up," spoke Revan and she obeyed, "I hope I find you well."

His words were kind but Meetra did not miss the coldness in his tone.

"You do. Thank you, Master. You wished to see me?"

"Yes. We have...new plans."

"Was Rekkiad not a success?" she asked, with a slight frown. Revan was silent for a moment, and she could not help stealing a glance at Malak, who stared straight through her, eyes unfocused.

"The opposite, in fact. Rekkiad was...most interesting. Malak and I must leave immediately for the Unknown Regions, and I require you to -"

"The Unknown Regions? Surely, you defeated what remained of the Mandalorians. Their...numbers were few, and...you took a third of the Republic's forces with you," she said, confusion overriding fear, momentarily.

"This does not concern the Mandalorians. This is something more important. As I was saying, you will prepare your fleet for departure to the Drumond system and-"

"What could you possibly want there, Revan?" she asked incredulously, then corrected herself, "Master."

"Do you continually interrupt me for a reason, General?"

"No, but...Yes. If the Mandalorians are defeated, and surely they are, then we should return to the Order. Our part in this is done."

"No, General. It is not."

"Yes. It is," she insisted, eyes sliding over his metal face, wishing she could see what was underneath, "We must return control of the Republic forces to the Senate, and present ourselves to the Council. What we set out to do is done, Revan. The threat has passed. It is over."

"You speak out of turn, General," interjected Malak, no longer able to stay quiet. She had wanted to hear his voice for months now, but it was so full of disgust and scorn, she could barely stand it. In the years to come, she would experience grief and guilt over each one of her actions, but now she was mostly focused on how she had degraded, emasculated, violated Malak. She still loved him, even now and did not know how to stop. Furthermore, she did not know how to apologise or right the situation.

"Your inclusion in this conversation is not granted by the mere virtue of your presence, Malak," she said, deliberately matching his tone in an attempt to steel herself.

"On the contrary. We know what has happened to you," he said, taking a few steps forward and staring down at her, "Your reasons for wanting to return to the Council are most obvious, and I will not feign ignorance as you unwisely try to hide it from us."

"This is a fool's errand, Alek. Surely, you agree with me," she said, terror finally slipping up out of her chest and into her voice.

"Don't you dare call me that, again," he hissed, his voice a low growl that made her feel timid.

"That's enough," interrupted Revan, who was thoroughly sick of both of them, after listening to months of Malak seething over Meetra's actions, and even more time before that consoling Meetra regarding Malak, "Meetra, you will follow orders, or face reprimand."

"The only reprimand I will face will be from the Council. I've...made my own plans, already. If you will not join me, I will go alone."

Incensed, Malak moved at her, and with one hand tightly clenched her jaw. His hands were large and strong, and his fingers dug deep, painfully pressing her cheeks against her teeth and making her lips squash in a way most unflattering.

"You were issued with a demand, not a request," the words left his mouth through closed teeth, and he emphasised them by squeezing harder, until the unpleasant sensation was almost beyond what she could tolerate.

"Malak, leave us," barked Revan. Malak let go reluctantly and she saw the white remnants of her fake face lingering on the tips of his fingers. Though her expression was stone and she had not flinched, ice cold relief flooded Meetra's stomach. His eyes shone with white hot anger, but she met his gaze defiantly, face awash with a courage she did not really feel.

"Now, Malak," ordered Revan, voice threatening, and Malak relented. He stared at Meetra a moment more, before leaving.

When he had gone, and the door was closed, Revan turned back to Meetra, and removed the mask he was so rarely seen without, these days. His face was ashen, changed. If he had looked like this when she saw him last, she had been too wrapped up in her own affairs to notice. She was not strong enough to entertain what was implied by his veined skin and the dark circles under his eyes. She had to look away.

"Why are you doing this?" she asked, not daring to look up.

"Malak was not just threatening you, Meetra. We are aware of your predicament, though I notice that you have carefully avoided mentioning it in the months since it occurred."

Meetra couldn't answer him. She wanted reassurance, but could tell she would garner none from him.

"I won't send you away, regardless. You have use, still. We have recovered information that will allow us to...defeat the Sith."

"The Sith? There are Sith, now?"

"Yes. This is what necessitates a journey to Dromund Kaas."

"You know that I trust your judgement implicitly, Revan. But this seems unwise. You're...I've seen things, Revan."

"Tell me, Meetra. What enlightenment has your infinite wisdom provided?" he asked, snidely. They had disagreed many times in the past, but he had never been so outwardly dismissive of her opinion, and it rattled her.

"You're...different. I'm not sure you're...I don't know," she said, barely able to make the words leave her mouth.

Revan just scoffed.

"I'm glad you shared, Meetra."

"Revan, something is wrong with you."

"No, something is wrong with you, Meetra. But I am generously giving you an opportunity to remain relevant for a while longer."

"If this concerns the Sith, then it is a matter for the Order. The Mandalorian Wars were one thing, but Sith are another. They would not back away from this."

"The Council is useless, Meetra. They are filled with an insidious weakness, that atrophies their wisdom and lets fear rule over them. But there are other factors, too. I believe there is...an unimaginable power to be found by pursuing this lead. They are not worthy of it, and I do not wish to share it with them."

"Those are the words of a man who is falling," she said, finally finding her feet.

"And that is a naïve and simplistic view of a complex situation. I expected better from you. To wield such grand and volatile power requires the strength of two hands, Meetra. Two sides."

"Jedi stronger and better than you have attempted to traverse such a path before without success."

"There are none stronger or better than me, Meetra."

"Such words serve only to prove my point."

A tainted silence settled between them for a few moments as they stared intensely at one another.

"I am your Master, Meetra. You will obey me."

"And if I refuse?"

"You will not like the consequences."

"I won't tell you again, Revan," she pleaded, trying to keep the desperation from her voice, "We must repent. We must return to the Council. This has gone too far. Our task is finished."

"Our task is not finished!" barked Revan, fists involuntarily clenching.

"Mine is."

"You will listen to me, General. A man must exist betwixt both sides of the Force, and stand tall against the pull of each," he spoke, passionately, and closed the gap between them, grabbing her upper arms to constrain her, "It is from there we can see most clearly every logical relation between each possible choice. It is from there we are most powerful."

"I am not a soldier, Revan. There is no use trying to disguise your intentions. You cannot rally me."

"If you return to the Council, your potential to do good in this galaxy will be so restricted, it will render even your best efforts fruitless. I cannot..." Revan exhaled forcefully and releasing her, walked away in frustration, "I cannot, as a teacher and a friend, advise you to leave."

"I will not turn a blind eye to what is happening here. Your philosophy is the sign of a feeble man who is afraid to declare his true loyalty. Continue with that school of thought and the biggest twist of all will be when you turn out to be the villain of your own story, Revan."

"I forbid you to leave."

"I would rather you kill me, than force me to stand by and watch this happen."

"I will not fight you. There is nothing left in you to best."

"Then we have reached an impasse."

"Why do you wish to return to them, Meetra?"

She could not answer him.

"What good will it do now? What is a Jedi without the Force? You are damaged in a way that I believe cannot be undone. You are afraid, Meetra. It is plain to see. You are not returning to them because the Force wills it, but because the Force does not will you anything at all any more."

"I am...sure they will know how to fix it."

"It is not within their power. They would refuse, even if it was."

"Why? Surely this is not a unique situation. There must be...something," she said, face contorting into a grimace as words failed her.

"There is a black hole where you used to reside, that swallows light and dark alike. It is curious, and even I cannot imagine how you have managed to do such a thing. They will not accept it. They may seek to kill you for it, but even if they do not, they will never take you back."

"We will see," she said, weakly. She had yearned for Revan's advice on her predicament for so long, and expected, once he returned, that he would deliver comfort or a remedy, so the futile nature of his words seemed all the more cruel, now.

"Yes, we will. Go back to them, if that is what you wish. You are not welcome here anymore."

Meetra turned to leave, and bit down hard on the inside of her cheeks to stay the tears she knew were coming. Her feet betrayed her and she turned without wanting to, her voice exposing every vulnerability.

"You promised we would go home when this was over."

"I lied."

They stared at each other, a rift made of sorrow and wrath opening between them. It was only a few feet, but there had never been such a distance between them. She searched his face but everything she had once known him to be was dying or already dead. She didn't know it, but he felt the same about her.

"May the Force grant you mercy, Revan."

"I should say the same to you."


	25. Our little secret

**Chapter Twenty-Five**

**_It isn't the mountains ahead to climb that wear you out; it's the pebble in your shoe._**

"Meetra. Hey."

_She still wasn't sure if this was a ruse or the Force at work. She'd seen Revan, she'd seen Alek, she'd seen Nisotsa. She'd even seen Bastila and Meetra had barely even remembered that Bastila existed until Kavar mentioned her back on Onderon. Furthmore, the Bastila that had stood beside her just earlier was a fully grown woman and when Meetra had last seen her, Bastila couldn't have been older than thirteen, maybe. Curiously, she hadn't seen Arren Kae, and given how close they had been, and that Meetra had been responsible for her death, it seemed a glaring oversight on the part of this fever dream's puppet master. Meetra was confused, and growing certain she was being messed with, but some of these things were so accurate and sharp, and she wasn't aware of anyone still living that could have known all these things and been capable of weaving this together. _

_When she'd fought Alek, he'd thrown her back and she'd hit her head against a wall, now she was dizzy and nauseous and struggling to keep it together. She was fed up, and just wanted to be done with this. She wanted to be sitting in the co-pilot's seat, in the __Ebon Hawk__, while Atton gently ribbed __her __lack of pazaak skills. Now, just as she thought it was over, of course it got worse. It seemed fitting that she'd run into this Jedi, too, though she had badly hoped she would not._

"_What do you want?" snapped Meetra, too irritated and exhausted to humour any more of this tomb's strange offerings and clumsy lessons._

"_I just wanted to say hello," replied the Jedi and her loving tone turned Meetra's stomach, because she knew it was a lie._

"_Look. I get it, okay? But I actually have something important to be doing so unless you -"_

"_I just want to talk," she interrupted, face softening. Meetra furrowed her brow._

"_Talk, then."_

"_Good. Ooh, let's discuss that pilot. We've seen him before, do you remember? No. Well, he's reasonably good looking, I suppose. Kind of dark, kind of moody. Definitely our type," the girl enthused, the corners of her mouth lifting._

"_Get to the point," said Meetra, her face dark and angry._

_The girl strolled over, and smiled that spurious, honeyed smile Meetra knew too well. Between those five inch high boots and the ridiculously tall feathered headdress and that unconquerable ego, she __towered over Meetra. It shouldn't have been intimidating, but it was. Meetra was a grown woman, had maybe ten years on the pathetic whelp that stood before her and Meetra knew her, knew her better than anyone ever could. Maybe that was why. She knew the deep black river running beneath that glacier of white, she knew how thin the ice was and knew if she showed it any warmth, those crystals would melt and the darkness would spill out and stain her again._

_Gently, the girl brushed aside a stray hair from Meetra's face and identical pairs of blue eyes waged a silent war, each grey fleck and stria mirrored._

"_The point is that you love him. Isn't that true? But...does he love you? Because, you know something, Mee, I don't think he does," she said, then smiled and looked so joyous that Meetra wanted to backhand her, "But you know, just because he acts like it, doesn't mean it's true. Don't worry, I won't tell anyone. It can be our little secret."_

"_I wouldn't. Not again," defended Meetra, sincere and yet somehow suddenly uncomfortable._

"_You did, though. Because that's just it, Mee. We don't even have to try. Now you're not so miserably broken, that is. Did you miss all the attention? I bet you did. I will. This pilot – if you want him, __then take him. You still know how and you've already done half the leg work whether you meant to __or not. Just don't look him in the eye and you'll never have to think about it."_

"_Oh, for frack's sake. You know someth -" Meetra stopped. She closed her mouth and opened it again but her will to defend herself evaporated like summer rain becoming steam against hot pavement. All she could hear was that loathsome lullaby. She'd never heard it before but she knew every note by heart because she had composed it._

"_You said it yourself. Don't you remember? You remember how tight that iron was around your wrist, and you were still wearing that silly apron. It still had his blood on it, and you said it and you meant every word. It should have been you. It should have been us. None of them ever cared about you, Mee. Not your mother, not Revan, not Alek, and certainly not that pilot. But I do, Meetra. I love you and I'm trying to help. Don't you understand? Don't you want that?"_

"_I just want to go _home_."_

"Hey," said Atton, snapping his fingers near her face. Meetra startled and he watched her eyes travel the length of his arm up to his face, "You were really zoned out. I think Mical did a half-assed job fixing that crack in your skull."

"Maybe," said Meetra, flatly. She was unbearably empty and she looked down at her lap so Atton wouldn't see it. He stood there for a second, unsure of himself, then he sat down next to her on her bed.

Yesterday, he'd carried her from that shyrack cave, all the way back to the _Ebon Hawk_. For once, she'd been unable to protect herself, and he'd been given a chance to do so for her. It wasn't much, but it had made him feel virile and worthy. Being unconscious, she hadn't been aware of it, but he felt closer to her regardless.

When they arrived back, he'd placed her down on the cot in the med bay and after a more thorough examination, Mical had determined that her skull was fractured. It wasn't a particularly severe injury, but enough to explain her disorientation and strange mood. Mical fixed it quite easily with the Force, and she came to not long after. However, she hadn't seemed any more settled, and her agitation had grown quickly into edgy panic. She'd not so much asked as barked to be left alone, then retired to her room. Today, Atton, never particularly good at listening to Meetra, was sick of waiting and wanted to see her. So there he sat, next to her, trying to evaluate her while she avoided looking at him.

Without a thought, he placed a hand where her shoulder met her neck and gently squeezed, and he felt her relax under his touch just briefly before her weary spine straightened and she shrugged him away.

"Do you need something, Atton?" she asked, monotonously.

"Just...checking up on you," he said, with a shrug.

"I'm fine."

He'd hoped that she would be a little more receptive, but wasn't deterred.

"So uh, I'm not sure if you remember, but I'm totally a hero, now. I mean, I guess Blondie did the important bit but I did all the heavy lifting, so to speak," he said, false bravado furnishing his face with a cheeky smile, hoping the 'heavy' comment would rile her.

"Thanks," she said, completely unfazed. She still hadn't looked at him and that feeling he had yesterday, that something was very wrong, returned. He didn't like serious discourse at the best of times, but it seemed necessary now.

"What happened in there? I'm guessing more than just a knock to the head."

"I can't remember," she deflected and it was obvious she was lying.

He touched her back with the length of a single finger to test her reaction, then pressed his palm flat in the tiny dip where her spine joined her pelvis. It wasn't the pacifying gesture he'd intended, however, and she turned abruptly, face made of stone.

"Please, don't touch me."

Atton's fingers instantly retracted to make a hurt and hesitant fist. He had always been able to take rejection in his stride. He usually he saw it in one of two ways; either an exciting challenge, or a handy indicator that he was wasting his time. But from Meetra it was always confusing and damn if it didn't always sting far more than such a tiny barb should.

"What's wrong?" he asked, frowning at her, struggling to understand why she was acting like this.

"Nothing. I just...want you to go, please."

"Meetra..." he began, and then stopped short, because he didn't know what to say. He glanced around the room. It wasn't the way she normally kept it – it lacked the meticulous neatness she would normally obsessively enforce. Instead the clothes she had worn yesterday were crumpled on the floor and an empty teacup sat on the only intact stack of books – the rest were stretched over the floor like defeated dominoes. It looked as though she had knocked them over and neglected to pick them up; whether accidental or intentional, Atton couldn't tell. It wasn't much, certainly not untidy by Atton's standards, but it was strange for her. His thoughts scattered for a moment, and fondly he remembered a debate they'd had about the impracticality of books back on Telos.

"Please, leave," said Meetra, drawing him back to the present.

"Alright," he said and reluctantly stood. Before he reached the door, he stopped and turned back, "Is this about Blondie?" he asked, because he couldn't think of any other way to extend his visit. He regretted it immediately when she finally looked up at him and her eyes were on fire.

"What?" she hissed, and something in her voice wrapped around him like a lasso, squeezing tightly and making him lose all composure.

"Because, if it is, you know, Meetra, he's like...really young. Too young, for you, and...That's just. It's not right," he jabbered, awkwardly. He could feel the situation growing messier, and he wished he'd stop running his mouth and just shut up, but he couldn't seem to stop the words from coming out. He didn't even care about Mical, right now, he just wanted to stay.

"Force, Atton. Mical has nothing to do with this," she said, exasperated.

"Then what's your damn problem?" he demanded. He was growing rapidly impatient. He didn't appreciate it when she was cryptic at the best of times, but he'd spent so much of the last week worried that she was dead, it seemed a slap in the face now.

"Understand what I'm saying. You're my pilot, and my student, and that's all. You don't belong in here. Please, go," she said, very slowly and deliberately. She was looking right at him but her eyes did not connect with his, and her face, for a moment, didn't look the same as he had always known it. At that moment, she sickened him, so much so, he couldn't continue.

"Good to know," he said, tone languid and low, and left without another look at her.


	26. Let me carry her

**Chapter Twenty-Six**

_**Doubt is a pain too lonely to know that faith is his twin brother.**_

Without a word to anyone, Meetra had set out this morning alone to look for Vash. When the various inhabitants of the_ Ebon Hawk_ discovered she was gone, there had been a discussion in the mess about whether or not they should go after her, just to be sure. However, Kreia had disapproved, and no one, not even Atton, felt it was worth the trouble to disagree with her.

He wasn't upset about what had happened the other day. When he she was there in front of him, he'd suddenly felt quite hateful towards her but as soon as he walked out the door the feeling dissipated entirely, and he wasn't really sure what had happened. Atton's feelings bruised easily, but for a reason he wasn't insightful enough to understand, they weren't now. He was just worried about her.

Sitting in the cockpit, feet propped on the console, eyes closed, listening for ticks in the power couplings, Atton heard the door slide open behind and turned around, hoping to see Meetra, though he knew she wasn't back yet. When he craned his neck back to look there instead, disappointingly, stood Kreia.

"What do you want?" asked Atton, sneering and turning back to the console.

"You must make preparations to leave. Immediately."

"She's not even back yet. What do you want to do, leave without her?" asked Atton, incredulously.

"The Exile is in great danger, and has made a tactical retreat from a battle which she cannot win. We must leave the moment they arrive, or we will not have another opportunity."

Atton stood to face Kreia and narrowed his eyes.

"What do you mean, 'great danger'? If she's in trouble, then why aren't we helping her?"

"The only way you can help her now is ready this ship for our escape," replied Kreia, voice as cold and impatient as it always was when she deigned to speak to Atton.

She left before Atton had a chance to say anything else. After a moment of standing there in stunned silence, he did as she requested, and plotted a straight course that served no real purpose other than to take them away from the Force-forsaken planet that was Korriban. He waited by the _Ebon Hawk's _ramp, and when Meetra returned less than half an hour later, red-faced and out of breath, he spent a summary moment quietly scanning her for injuries before returning, satisfied, to the cockpit. In his capable hands, the _Ebon Hawk _ascended, weightless and heaven-bound.

The door slid open again, and this time it was Meetra. She sunk into the chair beside him, face ashen. He glanced at her only momentarily, his concentration still held by the _Ebon Hawk_. She was uncharacteristically quiet and eventually Atton was forced to speak first.

"Where are we headed, Meetra?"

"I don't know."

"What happened back there?"

"Vash is dead. Fought Darth Sion. Couldn't beat him."

"Frag...you mean old Sleeps-With-Vibroblades?"

She nodded, still staring blankly ahead. Atton felt awkward, and wasn't sure if he should try to comfort her. The truth was, he wouldn't even know where to begin, anyway.

"Atton," she said suddenly.

"Yeah?"

"Don't make the jump."

He frowned and tilted his head.

"I want to go back to Korriban."

"Why? Is having two hands getting old?" he asked, leery of her request.

"It was a trap."

"Yeah, I got that much."

"No...I mean...He won't stay there. Trap's sprung. He'll leave to look for me. If you just...I don't know, cruise around, for a little bit, we should be able to go back, no problems."

"But why would you want to?"

"There's something I still need to do."

"Are you going to tell me what?"

"No."

Atton exhaled laboriously, intent on illustrating to her what a bad idea he thought this was.

"Please."

"You're really not going to tell me why?"

"Not yet. Please, don't let anyone else know either. Can you...find a way to sneak us back there, while the others are asleep, or something?"

"That's a really tall order, Meetra. You actually think no one's going to notice?"

"Pretty please."

Atton searched her face, then gave her a small nod.

"Alright."

"Alright," she repeated, and gave him a meek but genuine smile as reward.

He expected her to leave, but she stayed. She tucked her feet up on her chair, and focused on a loose thread at her sleeve. The silence between them was uncomfortable, but small-talk seemed inappropriate, and eventually Meetra, utterly exhausted, drifted off. When he noticed, Atton reached under her chair and cautiously pulled the hydraulic release to crane the back of the chair on a slightly more comfortable angle, hoping to prevent the kink that he knew from experience napping there would create in her neck.

Afternoon became evening, and only Bao-Dur poked his head in to ask why they hadn't entered hyperspace yet. Atton impressed himself with a rather believable excuse about timing the jump to avoid warp lag. He couldn't be sure if Bao-Dur bought it, but he didn't argue, and that seemed good enough. Eventually, the sounds of people milling around the ship ceased, and he woke her with a shake to the arm. She blinked hard, and seemed surprised to have fallen asleep.

"It's just us. What do you want to do?" he asked.

She took a deep breath, and blinked hard again, trying to get her bearings.

"I need to...get some things together. That stuff I got you on Coruscant, have you got it handy?"

"What, the Jedi stuff?" he asked, brow furrowed. She'd found a tailor on Coruscant that had made full Jedi attire for all of them. Day to day, her own dress only bore a passing resemblance to traditional Jedi garb anyway, and she'd asserted that she didn't require or even expect any of them to wear it, but wanted to be sure they had it.

"Yeah. Try to land without waking anyone up, then put it on. All of it."

"Why?" he asked, with a grimace.

"Because I told you to," she said, and left without another word.

He dug the soft, floppy bundle out from under the console where he'd hastily stashed it weeks ago. It was wrapped in flimsiplast and had his name written on it. The only part of the ensemble he'd worn so far were the boots. They were outrageously comfortable, and made from a very soft, rusty brown leather. The rest he wasn't interested in.

"Because I told you to," repeated Atton sarcastically, rolling his eyes. He changed, though he didn't want to.

It all fit perfectly, which irritated him. He hadn't worn tailored clothes in years. It was hard to tell these days, but he'd come from a wealthy family and almost article of clothing he'd owned as a child had been hand made and tailored to fit precisely. His beloved ribbed jacket had always been a little too tight around the shoulders and the lining had seen better days. It still had the blaster burn in the sleeve from Nar Shaddaa, and with the kind of trouble that followed Meetra, it was becoming progressively more ragged by the day. His mother, rest her soul, probably would have delicately fanned her face and let her eyes roll back in her head if she knew he wore the same dirty, worn out jacket every day. Some boyish part of him still loved and adored her, and he could still find a modicum of comfort in remembering the deep green of her eyes and the perfectly symmetrical dimples in her cheeks when she smiled, but he couldn't help the lingering adolescent pleasure he got from defying her, even at age thirty-two when he really should have been beyond such things.

He began the descent, as Meetra had requested, and as he waited for the _Hawk_ to prepare herself for re-entry, he looked over the Jedi robe still sitting folded on the dash. The other parts, like the gloves and trousers and tunic, were a creamy pale caramel colour, but the robe was red. Not the vivid red of the Sith but a rich, organic red, similar to the boots. Meetra must have chosen it, because he'd wanted no input in the matter, and she'd only just barely managed to convince him to allow his measurements to be taken at all. Something about the colour made him feel melancholy and he'd only just began to sift through the reasons why, when Meetra returned. She had changed, as well, and looked as formal as he'd ever seen her. They greeted each other with only a look, and he touched back down on Korriban with barely a clunk. He expected Meetra to make a smart-ass comment about how impressed she was that for once he'd landed without crashing, but when he looked at her, her face was wintry and still.

"Let's go," she said, voice cool, and walked out before Atton had a chance to reply. He wasn't quite ready, so he quickly holstered his blaster, tossed the robe over his shoulder, pulled his boots on and jogged down the hall to catch up with her.

They disembarked as quietly as possible, and the chilly night air passed over their cheeks, turning them pale pink. Meetra walked with a certainty and speed that unnerved Atton. She held a floodlight, similar to the one he'd broken when the gravity failed months ago. He was incredibly glad she'd brought it, because the darkness on this planet was oppressive. Being a desolate, abandoned world, there were no street lights, no lit up windows, no soft glow on the horizon from nearby cities. Even the light from the stars and Korriban's numerous moons seemed to be choked out by the thick blackness of the night. He hadn't intended on putting the robe on but as the breeze began to sting it became necessary. During the day, Korriban was unbearably hot, but at night the air was frozen. He looked over at Meetra, but she didn't seem bothered.

"So, are you going to tell me what we're doing here?" he asked, finally.

"I need to deal with Vash. She deserves better than rotting on this vile planet."

"What are you going to do? Bury her?"

"No, I'm going to cremate her. Jedi don't bury their dead."

Atton did not reply. He did not like this plan, and had Meetra not seemed so serious, he would have asked why she only ever brought him along for the very worst things. She was indifferent to Atton's lack of response, and lead him through the valley, down to a dried riverbed. It was cracked, and had most likely lay arid for at least a decade now. Its rim was littered with desiccated trees that had died when the water dried up. Atton started thinking about the logistics of hauling enough timber to accomplish their task, and was surprised when Meetra kneeled and bowed her head, breath heavy and slow. Moments later, he heard a crack, and then another, and then the stumps were torn from the red soil and pulled into the sky. Pushing her fists off her knees to gain momentum, Meetra stood in a swift motion, and turned, wordless, and began the journey back to the valley, army of ghostly trees following her obediently. There was something different in her gait, something fierce, though Atton could not tell if it was determination or rage.

She led him to the steps of the Academy, where she had fought Sion, and pulled the door open with her Force. Once inside, she set the trees down gently in the main hall, and together, using their hands and their lightsabers, they sheared through the wood and stacked it to make a pyre. Meetra offered instruction, where needed, but otherwise did not speak. Eventually, she seemed satisfied, and stood, staring blankly at their creation.

"Where's the Jedi?" asked Atton, eventually.

"She's um," Meetra swallowed, hard, and pointed then began to walk instead of finishing her sentence. Atton followed her, through the empty halls, eyes searching for left behind Sith but they were alone, and their foot steps echoed against the cold stone walls.

He followed her down the towering, empty halls to a room, that looked a lot like the interrogation chambers Atton had occasionally used when he worked under Revan. Vash's body lay limp on the ground, encircled in a pool of sticky, dried blood and Meetra went to it. She knelt, setting down the floodlight to her right and ran her hand over Vash's hair lovingly. She pulled her rucksack off her shoulder and Atton watched as she removed several clean and neatly folded sheets. With a small utility knife, she nicked the hem, and then tore the sheets into long ribbony strips. When they had first arrived on Korriban over a week ago, Visas had voiced fears that she had just felt Vash's death and the timing seemed about right to Atton. The body was fetid, decomposing, but Meetra did not let even the shadow of a grimace pass her face, as she removed from it the filthy, blood-stained clothes and tenderly wrapped it in the crisp, white cloth. Her methodical and unaffected technique told Atton that it was not the first time she had needed to do this in her life.

He couldn't help but feel relieved when she did not request help in this specific task. He had seen death many times, had often been the cause, even, but he had never done anything like this before. Atton would kill, then leave, then try to forget. On a practical level, the odour and sight of Vash's body made his stomach churn, but his revulsion was more powerful than that.

Atton had two lightsabers now. After Dxun, Meetra helped him make a second one so he could duel-wield, and to her surprise, Atton had provided the crystal. It was only a shard – light blue, from the lightsaber of the first Jedi he had killed. He didn't know why he carried it around. He'd found it a few weeks after the fact, and put it in his pocket, maybe as a trophy. And there it had stayed, for many years. Though she had complained about the difficulty of creating a functional weapon from only a fragment, she didn't pry as to its source, and Atton was grateful for that. Using this crystal wasn't meant as an insult, but rather Atton hoped he could do some good with it, and that maybe he could atone that way, maybe he could make it up that Jedi whose name he had never bothered to learn.

He ran his fingers over the hilt as Meetra toiled, and began to wonder what became of the victims left in his wake. How long it had been since each of them were found, if any of them ever again received the deep respect Meetra was displaying now. Did somebody look for them? Did anyone mourn them? Had any of them been someone Meetra had known or even cared about?

Then Mical's words returned to him and began to settle in his chest, and he wished he had refused to come. By the time Atton forced these thoughts from his mind, Meetra had finished, and carefully positioned herself to lift the body and then, as though seeking deliverance from indiscretions past, the words escaped his mouth.

"Let me carry her."

Meetra looked at him, clearly almost as shocked as Atton was. He immediately regretted the offer and opened his mouth to take it back, when Meetra's face softened with gratitude, and he found the words would not come. With no other choice, he strode over, rolled up the sleeves of his robe and gently lifted the bounded figure. It was lighter than he expected, but smelt worse close up. As they made their way out of the room, he noticed treacle-like, congealed plasma and coagulated blood seeping through the fabric, leaving sickly yellow and titian stains on the sleeves of his tunic, and Atton's stomach turned again. He pressed his tongue hard against the roof of his mouth and tensed the muscles in his jaw and throat.

Meetra took the light again and walked ahead, and when they reached the main hall, she gestured and Atton placed the cadaver on the makeshift pyre they had prepared. Meetra set her rucksack on the floor and bent down to open it. From it, she removed Vash's lightsaber she had earlier taken, a clean set of her own brown Jedi robes, a bottle of rubbing alcohol she had stolen from the medbay, and a book from the collection in her room. She draped the robe over the body, and placed Vash's lightsaber on the torso. She held the book and removed the cap from the bottle, tipping the clear, dry liquid through the pages until it was soaked. The remainder of the bottle she poured over body and pyre until the last drip slid past the lip of the container. The wet book she nestled in the pyre.

Atton heard her ask without words, and he complied by removing the slick silver lighter he kept in his pocket and offering it to Meetra. A tiny click pierced the silence then blue flame illuminated the relatively dim room, the light settling in over Meetra's face and making her usually soft features sharp. Something strange and painful and almost akin to longing wriggled in Atton's chest as Meetra's tiny hands slipped inside the pile, and the flame licked the sodden book and bloomed quiet but sudden.

Backwards Meetra stepped until she stood at Atton's side again. They watched as the flames sparked and spread, and eventually their faces were bathed in yellow light and red heat. Atton almost expected Meetra to cry. He'd never seen her cry before, and it seemed like if she was ever going to, this would be the time, but when he glanced sideways, her face was stony and her eyes were still. Tiny flecks of ash flew up from the pyre and settled on their shoulders, and in their hair and the air filled with the sickening, cloying scent of charred flesh.

"Let's go home," she said, eventually, voice flat, the bright light still flicking over her face. Atton only nodded. He picked up her bag and slung it over his shoulder. It was a small gesture, but Meetra appreciated it. Together, they slipped through the gap in the stone door and began their descent down the many small and shallow steps. As they made their way back to the _Ebon Hawk_, behind them on the horizon Horuset appeared, and the morning's first heated rays hit their backs, casting long shadows before them.


	27. Meetra's deepest pain

**Chapter Twenty-Seven**

_**She who puts out her hand to stop the wheel of history will have her fingers crushed.**_

Dantooine smelt better than Meetra remembered. Crisper and sweeter and intimately familiar. She hadn't set foot on actual soil, or felt fresh air on her face in so long and it soothed the hollow rattle of anxiety in her chest. The circumstances weren't palatable, but it was the first time she'd felt anything but dread since Malachor and it was a welcome change. She had been clear to the Order – she wanted to come home and to her surprise they had consented, provided she stand trial in front of the High Council. Curiously, they'd asked her to go to Dantooine first, even though the trial was to take place on Coruscant. She found it strange, but felt she was not in a position to question them now.

The walk from the spaceport to the Enclave was brief. The inhabitants of Dantooine frequently milled around the Enclave, usually hoping for the Jedi to provide assistance or money or even food if they were desperate enough. Today was no different and as she approached, she could feel them turn to face her. Some probably knew her, from years earlier when her face was clean and her hair was long, but she did not know if they could recognise her now. She was wearing the outfit Revan had always made her don, and it seemed particularly out of place here. Revan had found most of what she wore on Malachor originally and had it altered to fit her. Even now, she had never set foot on the Malachor herself, and he never shared where exactly he found it or his theories on what such an outfit was doing on an uninhabited, inhospitable planet like that in the first place.

She could extrapolate now. Adamant was Meetra that he had found something Sith related when he first went there years ago and if she pieced together her memories carefully she could chart the subtle changes in Revan's personality as having begun around that time. She was also now certain these clothes once belonged to a Sith. Judging by the quality and detailing, a female Darth seemed most likely to her. As she thought this over, suddenly it seemed like an act of hostility towards the Jedi to wear such a thing on this occasion, but she felt she'd had little choice. She'd lost so much of herself in the last year that and she'd grown to loathe the face and body that she hid beneath. No matter what conclusions anybody drew from her appearance, she wasn't convinced it could be any worse than those her own face would draw these days.

In addition, she had literally no other garments with her. She'd had her own ship – gigantic and magnificent – but she'd left it behind along with the large crew that manned it and taken a small, humble shuttle, abandoning almost everything she owned, save for some small keepsakes. A small book on Jedi philosophy and technique complete with dozens of encouraging notes and annotations, a gift from Alek before she became the monster that pulled the trigger at Malachor. A wooden puzzle box she cherished, given by Vima, that reminded her of the mysterious nature of the Force and gave her hope she could one day be healed. A simple silver ring with an Echani inscription inside that she had collected from Arren Kae's personal belongings after she had died. And her original lightsaber, made when she was only thirteen, single-bladed and cyan in hue, which hung now at her side, as devoted and faithful to her as ever.

She hadn't seen direct combat in perhaps two years, and without Revan there to push her, she hadn't bothered to train, either. She'd gained fat and lost muscle. The change was small, but nothing fit as nicely as it used to. The sun was much hotter than the recycled air of the space stations she had adapted to and she felt herself begin to sweat underneath the increasingly tight layers of velvet and durasteel. Revan's words whispered in her ear, repeating his warnings, and she clenched and unclenched her fists, trying to block them out.

The grass was dewy under her feet, and she walked quickly to prevent the heels of her boots from sinking into the muddy ground. Meetra saw at a distance Vrook Lamar, his face more drawn than it looked in her memories. She came to a stop and a tense moment passed as the two stared at one another. Lamar had never liked her and if she was frank, the feeling was mutual. So intensely focused on his face was Meetra that she did not notice other Jedi emerging from where they had concealed themselves. She knew only some of them – Vash, Atris, who she thought might be a teenage version of a twi'lek child she had once known called Kaah Ohtok. One other, an intimidating figure, she had never met but knew of well was Lucieen Draay, a member of the High Council and quite a big deal as far as Jedi were concerned. They were moving slowly and a quick glance yielded the realisation that they had already drawn arms and their costive pace was caution. Something was wrong.

"My, haven't you come a long way little Padawan?" asked Draay, in a tone that was both sarcastic and familiar, as if they had known each other a great deal of time.

"What is going on?" she said, her voice uneasy.

"Surely you did not think we would just take your word that your redemption was sincere, given the depth of your betrayal," Draay replied, his tone condescending.

"It was my impression that the High Council trial you agreed to would be where you determined the authenticity of my claims, not from behind the hilt of a lightsaber," she retorted. Meetra's voice was bold only because she forced it.

"You may like to know that the Council has already convened regarding your return," said Atris, flatly. The last time Meetra had spoken with Atris, they had been friends, but now there was nothing left in her eyes but scorn. Her words instantly incited a mote of ire inside Meetra.

"And?" demanded Meetra.

"And there are no roads forward from this point that correspond with your goals, Surik," Atris said.

"No," defended Meetra, "You haven't even let me speak for myself."

"You were always obstinate, weren't you, Meetra?" interjected Vrook, finally.

"You're forcing my hand," she said, voice stiff.

"Yes, it's always the Council backing you into a corner, isn't it?" Draay spoke again.

"She has never had any sense of responsibility for her actions. I don't see why we would expect such from her now," interjected Vrook. He had always had a special tone of disdain reserved specifically for Meetra and he seemed pleased to able to parade it around once more.

"I think it is quite clear that I have returned because I do," she said, and her chest betrayed her, heaving rapidly as she grew choleric.

She looked to Vash now, hoping for assistance, but Vash just looked away. Briefly, Meetra saw a sadness in her face that maybe indicated that this was not the outcome she had wanted, but there was no method or time to divine the truth. She looked between them all, hardly believing they were doing this, and in front of civilians, no less. She turned on her heel and met a row of pointed blasters. They were not civilians, not the people gathered at the Enclave wanting attention from the Jedi, but militia, as she realised when she studied the hardened apathy on their faces as they held their guns with steady hands. She was not afraid of them, but rather incensed and she turned back to stare fiercely at Draay, barely able to push the words past the ball of rage in her throat.

"I am leaving. You will let me leave."

"You will do no such thing," hissed Draay, and Meetra sensed an anger in his voice that did not befit a Jedi of his standing.

She ignored Draay, and turned again, pushing past the gathered marksmen so turbulently she could have disturbed them no more had she still use of the Force. Without warning, a wave of energy hit her from all sides, lifting her up off her feet before dropping her to the ground like lead. She was breathless, an acute pain in her chest warning her of that one of her ribs had broken in the crush. Subconscious reflexes took charge as she quickly pulled herself to her feet, drawing her lightsaber and raising it over her head, as her body lowered and her right leg slid back. Shien, just as Revan had taught her.

Locked in a stand-off, she glanced between nine, ten, eleven, a dozen opponents, and her mind swam. There were a few moments of silence, before Lonna Vash, who had still not uttered a word, lunged at Meetra. She deflected Vash's blade with ease but only narrowly missed Ohtok's, who had flown in right behind. It was obvious to Meetra that Vash was attempting only to disarm her, but the knowledge did nothing to arrest the fury inside her.

She handsprung backwards to avoid blasterfire, as without the Force, she was entirely incapable of deflecting the bolts with her lightsaber. The motion caused her large and elaborate head dress, not designed for combat, to slide off and fall to the ground. Its absence revealed the pink flushed rim of her face that made more obvious the amount of heavy make up she was wearing. Her plain brown hair, cut short for convenience, was limp, sweaty and matted against her head.

An incendiary bolt hit her heavy black velvet cloak and it caught fire immediately. It took all of her concentration to continue fighting as she unclipped the clasp at her neck and tossed the flaming wreck of fabric. She parried Vash again expertly, just as Revan had beat into her with hours upon hours of practice, but she was flying blind without the Force and the limits of her skill were reached when she saw Vrook in the corner of her eye, the gleaming pulse of purple in his palms letting her know he was about to stasis her.

She instinctively threw her lightsaber and fear flooded her as she realised her fatal mistake. She watched in slow motion as the blade retracted and the hilt spun towards Vrook who side-stepped it effortlessly. Her hand flexed in futility, pointlessly urging it to return to her but it landed with a metallic clang on the ground. The searing kiss of Atris' lightsaber pierced her flank suddenly, threading through her abdomen as easily as a needle through silk. Meetra doubled over in pain as the durasteel plating of her armour warped under the tremendous heat, molten metal binding to her flesh. Deep inside, she began to haemorrhage, and the wound wept unrepentantly, pooling at her feet. The smell of blood and burnt flesh and betrayal flooded her senses.

"I yield," she called, acidic pain curdling the words.

She struggled to stand, feet slipping against the slick grass, made muddy by dew and her own blood, hands jammed against the wound but was knocked to the ground by a blaster bolt to her back. At first she screamed but shock quickly smothered her voice, and she fell silent. Everything felt cold, and very, very far away. She felt a booted foot push her onto her back, and voices discussing the extent of her injuries floated just out of earshot.

"I yield," she repeated, too weak, too pathetic, too quiet to hear.


	28. The shower

**Chapter Twenty-Eight**

_**The first man takes the pearl. The second man gets the oyster. And the last man is left with the shell.**_

When they returned, the ship was still silent. Meetra thanked the Force for the chance to conceal their return to Korriban from the others, and without needing to be asked, Atton quietly saw to their departure. Meetra did not sit, but stood patiently behind him, waiting until they had broken the gravity well to speak.

"We should...get cleaned up," she said, with a heavy sigh that betrayed the non-physical nature of her exhaustion.

"You go first. You look like you need it more than I do," said Atton, though he did not relish the thought of waiting.

Meetra shook her weary head. "Just...You can't sit there, like that. Just come with me."

Atton didn't understand what she intended to do but followed her down the hall to the refresher anyway. She closed the door behind them and discarded her robe. She removed the obi tied around her waist and her tunic flared making a billowy sea of soft fabric. Atton watched awkwardly as she washed her hands and splashed her face. At first the tiny spots of ash and soot gathered around her hairline became black streaks, and then, with another slosh of water, were gone. His discomfort began to dissipate and he followed her example, stripping off his soiled outer garments. The cotton vest he wore below them was still clean so he kept it on and took a place at the long sink next to her. He let the water run over his hand for a few seconds before cupping a small amount of it and splashing the back of his neck. When he removed his hand, it was stained the rusty red of Korriban, from dirt that had clung to sweat long since evaporated.

In the mirror, Atton watched her loosen the braid that encircled her crown, releasing limp locks of dark brown hair that settled around her shoulders and obscured her face until her fingers brushed them back and tucked them behind her ear. She looked up at the mirror, and their reflections made eye contact.

"Thank you," said Meetra, voice husky and timid.

He only nodded, but his eyes were warm and genuine.

She turned away and walked to the shower, playing with the settings before letting the stream run over her palm until it was hot and began to steam. The refresher on the _Ebon Hawk_ was not the most well-designed of rooms. There was a long row of lockers, more than there were beds, and everything else came in threes. Three showers, three sinks, but none were separated. The shower stalls had no dividers between them, which ruled out sharing and as the number who called the _Hawk_ home grew, a schedule had become necessary. Meetra was first to rise and first to shower. Atton was lazy and last and didn't bathe nearly as frequently as he should.

With curiosity, Atton watched as Meetra played with the panel of the second shower, then removed the rest of her clothes – the dark cream tunic, matching leggings stained red at the knees, the binds around her feet she wore in place of socks – until she stood in nothing but her underwear. Not the slightest blush of embarrassment was present on her face, and Atton thought back to Peragus. It seemed a strange confidence to him, nothing to do with pride or seduction or conceit, just a simple acceptance. Where once it had made him angry, now he almost respected it.

She reached behind her back to unhook her bra, and Atton's eyes flicked up towards the ceiling.

"Are you serious?"

"It's just a shower, Atton," she sounded unimpressed and tired.

"Good, good. Just checking."

"I thought you served in the war, flyboy. You seriously never had to take communal showers?" she asked, failing miserably to emulate the breezy tone she normally used to tease him.

"Well. Yeah, but no one in my platoon had, you know, breasts."

"Oh, no," she said, sarcastically, "Not breasts. How ever will you control yourself?"

"Shut up, Surik," he replied, "There was this one guy, actually. Had a hormone problem. We called him -"

"Shut up, Rand."

"Gotcha."

He was feeling unusually obedient, so proceeded to strip off the remainder of his clothes and set about washing, his back to hers. Atton knew that in a few night's time, when everyone else was asleep and he felt lonely in the cockpit, he'd regret not stealing more furtive glances but he couldn't bring himself to look at her. Less than a year ago, before he met Meetra, he could easily have found a way to turn this situation to his advantage. He could have found a way to get what he wanted, but it didn't seem appropriate, and he didn't want to pressure her. He lost himself, wondering when he had become such a fracking gentleman. A tiny squeak drew him from his thoughts and he turned to Meetra, keeping his eyes steadfastly above her neckline. Her stance was strange, arms limp at her sides and her head bowed. A moment later her shoulders shuddered forward, and Atton realised she was crying.

"Meetra?"

She shook her head but couldn't speak. Atton didn't have instincts for dealing with this. She was completely transparent, every last tainted fibre inside her exposed and he didn't understand why but he could feel it all too. A part of him so new and young he barely knew it took over, and he went to her. Their state of dress seemed to have no bearing on the situation, there was no charge or tension. He took her and tried to hold her still like he thought a good man was supposed to do. He expected she might push him away out of pride, but she just put her weight against him and sobbed, the kind of painful sobs that tear one's throat. The kind only caused by the very last crack as a tarnished, pock-marked heart tears in two.

He waited, and when her sobs did not subside, he groped behind him to find the railing, and anchoring himself against it, lowered them to the ground. He sat there, back against the cold durasteel and Meetra between his legs. She shifted to her side, her shoulder on his chest and her face pressed to his collarbone. To both of them, she seemed to belong there, fit there like a puzzle piece, and Atton threaded a hand under her arm and around her ribcage, the other holding her jaw, thumb moving slowly across her cheek.

He allowed himself to look now, and found her changed. When she'd first walked through that door at Peragus, she was, in his eyes, perfect. Toned but ever so slightly plump with wide hips and a slight tuck of soft fat at her underarms. Now the body that lay before him was thin and wasted by stress. Her ribs and hips and spine jutted out in a way that almost looked painful.

He saw things he'd not noticed before. A set of circular scars almost like dimples on her upper arm, a sign she had most likely been born on a back-water planet, prone to diseases that were virtually unknown in Republic space. A patch on her left thigh, pock-marked and callused from frequent use of stims and medpacks. Whispery, translucent remnants of puberty laying barely noticeable at her hips and the edges of her breasts, and several silvery scars nestled behind her ear, the mark left by implants and enhancements. He had to question his burgeoning status as a gentlemen again, when he realised he didn't care about any of it. When it came to women, he was often judgemental and shallow, with impossibly high, impossible superficial standards, but he didn't care. And that confused him more than anything.

"I should have tried harder," she said, finally, so quietly he almost missed it, and voice so ragged he barely understood it.

"I don't think you could have done anything else for Vash," he said, earnestly.

"Revan. I should have tried harder to save Revan."

Atton was stuck, here, and didn't know what to tell her. He squeezed her a little tighter and rested his chin against her crown, hoping that would be response enough. She accepted this and continued.

"I saw what was happening, to him, and Alek, and I didn't stop it."

"I'm sure you did the best you could."

She sat up and looked at him, eyes flicking back and forth as she scanned his face.

"No, I didn't. I didn't even try. I was scared, and I just gave up."

"So what?" he asked, after a long pause.

"What do you mean, so what?" she asked, jerking her head back with a slight indignation.

"I mean, so what? People get scared and give up all the time. It's not your job to fix everything," he offered with a shrug.

"You don't...think I did the wrong thing?" she questioned slowly, frowning in confusion.

"I think it doesn't matter if it was right or wrong. It was just what happened."

Meetra seemed satisfied by this, because she rested her head against him again. Atton felt the tiny muscles in her face move as she tightly shut her eyes to wring out the last lingering tears.

"Who the hell is Alek?" asked Atton, so abruptly that it made Meetra laugh.

"I think you might know him better as Darth Malak, Dark Lord of the Sith," she said, adding sarcastic pomp to the latter half of her sentence.

"Oh," said Atton, "Probably should have called that."

Meetra laughed again, more quietly this time.

"So," she started, voice brighter but still fragile, "What's all this 'Mical's too young for you' business. How old do you think I am, Atton Rand? Force."

Atton made a disgusted sound and rolled his eyes.

"He's just...he's just such a moron, Meetra. Did you really have to bring him? I thought things were just fine when it was just you and me."

"Firstly, don't be mean," she chided, but she sounded amused, "Secondly, it was never just you and me. It was me and Teethree first, then Kreia, then you."

"Yeah. Well. I didn't know about them when you were prancing about half naked trying on shoes, so I'm not counting that, princess."

"Call me princess again and I'll castrate you, I swear."

"Duly noted, sweetheart."

Meetra groaned.

"Listen. The thing with Mical is...He's a...He's," started Atton, gesturing to encourage the right words to form in his mind.

"Nothing you should feel threatened by," she finished.

"Oh," he said, softly, and pondered this in silence.

Meetra inhaled then exhaled deeply, letting the breath pull on her vocal chords to produce a satisfied hum. The shower continued to drum down and Atton absent mindedly pushed away the wet strands of long hair that had plastered themselves to Meetra's cheeks.

"I'm so glad you're here. I don't let you know often enough," she said, her voice quiet and sincere.

"You don't need any of us, you know that?"

She sat up and touched a hand to his face, and he watched her blink slowly, eyelashes heavy and wet.

"That's not what I said, though. I said I'm glad you're here."

"Meetra, listen," he started, and could barely believe how difficult it was to speak. His expression telegraphed his intention, and she shook her head resolutely.

"I can't, Atton."

"Why?" he asked, and sounded almost hostile despite himself.

"I can't explain it in a way you'd understand."

"Do you know how stupid that sounds?" he asked plainly, frowning deeply at her.

"Yes," she admitted, quietly.

"Then why say it at all?"

"I don't know...just spreading misery everywhere I go, like usual?" she asked, trying to sound facetious but sounding more bashful.

"I wish I hadn't said that," he said, much more seriously than he normally allowed. He nudged her forehead with his gently and felt her breath against his mouth, only slightly warmer than the muggy air around them.

The moment that followed was tense and a sharp comparison to earlier. The base of her thumb was still pressed against his cheek and the water pooled in the cup it made, sliding down and dripping from her wrist to his shoulder. She moved the tip of her index finger against the tiny fold between his ear and face and whether she meant it or not, it seemed like permission to Atton so he kissed her. There was no resolve left in Meetra and she couldn't find the room in her head to make excuses, because every one of her faculties was devoted to Atton. The kiss was frantic and it seemed a reckless move, but Atton pushed hard anyway and she pushed harder back. Given their state of undress, there was precious little to occupy their hands besides each other and she was already practically in his lap so it wasn't long before they wordlessly agreed to finish what they'd started on Nar Shaddaa.

Chivalry was generally an unknown concept to Atton; he didn't open doors, or buy flowers or lay down his beloved jacket over puddles for any woman, but he did believe in ladies first. Accordingly, he concentrated dutifully on her and held until her spine arched stiffly and her fingernails made tiny painful crescents in his skull and flank. That was the cue he was waiting for, so he flipped her on her back, placing a deliberate hand behind her head so he didn't hurt her, and saw to his own needs. Each action was desperate, and rough, and plaintive, and he realised this was not a romantic liaison but a catharsis. A temporary purge of the anguish both were holding, and not something that was likely to be repeated in the future. He was using her, and she him, but it seemed acceptable. There was love, somewhere in there, but they couldn't say the words and so for now it could serve no purpose beyond allowing this to happen. He saw the end approach and tried to slow himself but it was too late. With a deadlocked kiss and a stillness that was only superficial, it was over. He let his weight go limp on top her and he pressed his face against the side of hers, trying to trap the memory of how she felt before it petered entirely.

Physically, he was stuck. Her ankles remained hooked behind his back so he focused on catching his breath until she finally released him. With some reluctance, he extricated himself from the tangle and resumed his former position, back against the wall, while Meetra lay still, eyes closed, water from the shower pooling in the muscular dip that ran the length of her abdomen and overflowing in a tiny river that snaked around her breast when she exhaled.

"You know, I wouldn't normally go for a walk in the rain without a raincoat, so hopefully that doesn't bite us in the ass," he said, eventually, when he grew tired of the silence.

"Romantic."

"I try."

"It doesn't matter, anyway," she said, finally sitting up. She gestured at the long scar over her hip, "Internal injuries. Can't conceive."

"Well, that's a relief," he said, shrugging casually.

"Yeah," she responded flatly, and Atton realised he'd said the wrong thing.

"You weren't really screwing around with me on Coruscant, were you?"

"Not really," she said, because she couldn't be bothered lying. She moved to cover herself, drawing her legs up against her chest and it gave her away. He couldn't really empathise, having never wanted to be a father, but he felt for her all the same. He gestured, gently, and without much coaxing she returned to her former position, tucked up against him, where it was safe.

"How did it happen?" he asked, more out of curiosity, than anything.

"It's not important, anymore," she deflected, sounding bitter regardless.

"I'm sorry, Meetra," he offered, tightening his grip and she sighed, resigned to her fate.

"It's fine. You play the hand you're dealt, right?"

"I suppose," he replied, giving a small nod.

Eventually the water ran cold, and Atton reached a hand up to turn it off. Before long, Meetra started shivering and Atton carefully extricated himself to fetch her a towel. When he sat back down, he expected her to sit beside him, but was pleasantly surprised when she didn't hesitate to wedge herself back between his legs. They made hushed and intermittent conversation, unaware of the passing of time, until they were disturbed by the sound of someone attempting to open the door, and then the broad tap of a palm knocking.

"Is anyone in there?" filtered Mira's voice through the wall.

Atton and Meetra looked at each other, and there was a flash of panic as they realised exactly how absurd the night had been.

"I am!" called Atton, without breaking eye contact with Meetra.

"Atton? What are you even doing awake this early? You're stealing my precious shower time."

"Well, I'm...kind of busy. Come back later."

"What? What are you doing? Wait, I don't want to -"

"Jedi hand tricks?" he said, making an apologetic face at Meetra.

"Oh, gross, Atton," shrieked Mira.

Atton felt Meetra's face turn into his collarbone and the smooth hardness of her teeth as she smiled.

"Would you rather I did it in the cockpit? Would that be more appropriate?" he leaned down at Meetra and lowered his voice, "Oh, maybe it would."

Meetra scowled at him and gently pushed her elbow into his ribs and he bit down hard to stop himself from laughing at her.

"Get fragged, Atton," Mira called, "What are we even still doing in Horuset? Did you forget to make the jump again?"

"I got busy. What's it to you?" he shouted back.

"You're such an idiot, Atton. Meetra's going to kill you when she wakes up."

"You know, I don't think she will," he said, sounding so ridiculously smug that Meetra couldn't help rolling her eyes.

"Whatever. Just hurry up," said Mira, tiring of Atton and stomping back down the hall.

When her footsteps faded, Meetra covered her face with her hands and whined, and Atton finally let himself laugh, which garnered little more than a soft tap of Meetra's palm against his temple. They stood and quickly set to dressing, intent on having vacated the refresher before Mira returned. Atton finished before Meetra, and stood in front of the mirror to admire his face. Over his shoulder, he saw the top of Meetra's head, bowed in concentration as she fiddled with the long row of buttons on the front of a blue smock. He thought of something. A moment, late at night on Telos. He turned around to face her.

"Look, uh. Pilot, student, whatever. But...before that," he pursed his lips, then smiled at her and extended his hand, "Friends, remember?"

Meetra remembered. She remembered, and it made her face split into the most genuine smile she could manage. The best rosy-lipped, slightly-crooked-toothed smile Atton knew.

"Friends," she confirmed, shaking his hand.

She let go and fixed the last couple of buttons, then fluffed her hair with her hands and sighed.

"So, uh. Dantooine?"

"You're the boss," he said, tilting his head upwards in confirmation.

She smiled again, and in a swish of blue cotton and dark brown hair she was gone.


	29. The Weavers Reel

**Chapter Twenty-****Nine**

**_Once we believe in ourselves, we can risk curiosity, wonder, spontaneous delight._**

The _Ebon Hawk_ was docked at a desolate fuel depot, in a system off the Hydian Highway, populated only by twin suns and a barren, uninhabited rock of a planet. It was not the most awe-inspiring of places, and the majority of the people working and living at the depot were most likely members of the Exchange. The _Hawk_'s crew had places to be, so they had been careful not to ruffle any feathers lest they delay themselves further. There was little beyond the actual depot, but it did, however, have a small cantina. Atton had been assured by the Rodian he'd bought the fuel from that, though seedy and not the kind of place one would want to walk around barefoot in, it did a fantastic nerf steak. Never willing to turn down a protein that hadn't been mechanically separated and turned into a grey paste by the Autochef, Atton had asked Meetra to dinner but she turned him down.

He suspected it had something to do with an incident earlier where he caught her staring at the garishly lit display of trashy, melodramatic, romance digi-novels in the main station. He'd wandered over and teased her about it, and she was adamant that she was merely bored and looking. But when he found her in her room later, intent on taking her out, he could tell she was hot and bothered because, he slyly reminded himself, he knew what that looked like now. Her hair was messy and she'd clearly been running a hand through one side of it, and she slid the datapad she was holding under her pillow when he walked in, clearly trying very hard to look casual and failing terribly. He found her love of reading quite hilarious, because she was ridiculously deadly, possibly the most lethal woman he'd ever known, and yet, he was sure, she'd rather spend her days secluded in a library somewhere. His most important clue about the true nature of rebuff was that this love of reading also included a love of reading _actual_ books, hard though they were to find, and certainly not digi-novels on datapads unless little other option presented itself. The sheepish look on her face and flustered excuse she gave him – something about not feeling too flash – confirmed, in his opinion, that she'd indulged and made a purchase and was too engrossed to tear herself away. The thought of her sitting in her room reading poorly-written erotic literature was so amusing to him, that he took no offence, and simply left her to it.

Still, he'd been in relatively high spirits and knowing that Meetra always wanted him to try and get along with the rest of the crew better, he took Mira instead. He hadn't specifically wanted to take Mira, but she was the first he ran into. She seemed suspicious, but consented, regardless, and the two had a surprisingly pleasant evening, including a semi-decent meal, maybe a little too much Juma and a long conversation that involved a lot of reminiscing and commiserating about Nar Shaddaa.

He'd never taken a woman out to dinner in such an innocent manner before. Even in the earliest stages of his friendship with Meetra, he'd often tried to ply her with one too many drinks so she might be fooled into finding him more handsome than usual and allow him to steal a kiss. It had never really worked, except maybe that one night on Nar Shaddaa, and that had turned out terribly anyway. He found it remarkably pleasant just to spend the night with platonic, female company. He wasn't attracted to Mira in the slightest, her being just a touch too young for him and, quite frankly, though he hated to admit it, she just wasn't Meetra. That was the biggest problem, really. That seemed to be the problem with every woman these days. It usually bothered Atton more, but he had some new 'reading material' of his own, so to speak, that he would revisit during late, lonely nights in the cockpit or during his morning shower. He knew she was still technically off-limits, and no mention had been made of what had happened back on Korriban, but he was content enough daydreaming for the time being.

It was late, now, almost midnight. He'd arrived back with Mira almost an hour ago. They'd found Canderous and Teethree in the galley, though their conversation, whatever it had been about, had dried up the moment Mira and Atton had entered. After quite a lot of small talk with very little substance, Atton realised the warm fuzziness of the Juma was rapidly dissipating and he was bored of being friendly, so, summoning all the drunken bravado he possibly could and he dragged his feet down the hall to Meetra's room, mind a-buzz with ways to ask her for a private reading of her new favourite book.

He was disappointed to find she wasn't there, however, and he decided that was probably for the best. Intent on calling it a night, he wandered back to the cockpit and the door slid open just before his hand got to the release. Meetra, who had opened the door from the opposite side, squealed in surprise, which startled him more than the door opening unexpectedly. He laughed, and then she followed suit. A graceless moment ensued, where she stepped to her left and he stepped to his right. Then she stepped right and he stepped left. Then she stepped forward, and he stepped back. Atton put a hand up as a signal to stop the nonsensical jostling.

"Nice box step, babe," he drawled, giving her a knavish grin.

He'd said it without thinking, but the words loosened something in his head and a flood of childhood memories filled Atton's hazy mind. His parents, a handsome and perfectly matched couple, dancing the Reel in their living room. One long, balmy summer filled with dance lessons from their housekeeper, an exceedingly strict but surprisingly humorous Twi'lek woman. Taking his first girlfriend to her promenade and how absolutely stunning she'd looked, especially later, on her back, golden hair sprawled across his bed.

"What's a box step?" Meetra asked, her voice calling him back.

"You know...It's a..." he trailed off and spun his hand in a small arc because that seemed as good an explanation as any he could offer, "A dance move, you know."

She returned only a blank stare.

"I'm guessing Jedi school didn't include a cotillion or a debutante or anything," he said, with a small shrug.

"A what or a what?" she asked, frowning more deeply.

"_Philistine_," he chided, a haughty but joking tone in his voice. He wrapped a hand around her hip and pulled her close, taking one of her hands in his spare. She looked confused, and only barely played along as he pushed her back with a gentle shove from his pelvis, trying to lead her in a dance.

"Did you just call me a philistine?" she asked incredulously, feet far more sluggish and clumsy than they ever were in combat.

"Sorry, I meant to say nerf herder," he said, mock apologetically, stepping back a little and gently lifting her arm, trying to encourage her to twirl but she just stood there, looking more confused by the second.

"Have you been drinking?" she asked, with curiosity but no rebuke.

"Only a little. I took Mira out. Now, if you recall, I wanted to take you but you were, you know, _busy_," he said, grinning villainously at her, and he knew immediately his hunch had been correct because she looked down, and a dreadful shade of pink crawled over her cheeks. He decided to ignore this and keep flitting her around but found no success, "C'mon, you're doing it all wrong, Surik."

"I don't know what you're expecting me to do," she said, bashfully, still recovering.

"Here, here," he said, voice gentle but grip firm as he repositioned her hands, "Now...we go forward, side, together...then back, side, together..."

As he spoke, he rather forcefully directed her body with his, until they'd made a small circle around the cockpit. He watched her the whole time, amused by how her confusion slowly morphed into something more flattering. He was exceedingly pleased with himself, having apparently stumbled on something that impressed her.

"Now, if you want to dance the Weavers Reel, which you do, trust me, we have to take a little walk, first," he said, detaching himself briefly to hit the release so the door would reopen. He gathered her hand in his again, and they did indeed take a little walk, down the hall, hands held between them at shoulder level. Atton turned in, then out, in time with the soft lilting melody that he hummed for her benefit, gesturing for her to do the same.

She followed obediently, and he led her in a dance that was far more intricate than the first. There was barely enough room in the hall for it, and it had been many revolutions since Atton had last tried, so it wasn't as delicate or elegant as it was meant to be. Meetra had never seen and certainly never participated in anything of the sort, however, so she didn't notice, and instead her eyes remained fixed on him, completely taken and undeniably smitten. He turned her, so they were facing opposite directions but standing side by side, one pair of hands joined above them and the other joined between their hips. From here, he turned her very slowly, forehead pressed against hers, which wasn't strictly part of the dance but was easily accommodated by the proximity of their faces. The closeness made her feel vulnerable, and though she hadn't intended on saying anything, suddenly she could do nothing but.

"Atton," she whispered, her voice tainted by a measure of anxiety. He frowned in response.

"What's wrong?"

"Dantooine...The Order...It's such a mess. I don't think this is going to be the nice civil meeting they're making it out to be. With their numbers so thin, I'm certain they'll want to take each of you as Padawans."

"I'm not following..."

"I was never even knighted, I barely...I'm not fit to teach, is what I'm saying. It would be stupid to turn down such an offer, and I wouldn't expect any of you to refuse it. But I know there's too much bad blood for me to ever rejoin the Order. They'll be able to take care of Nihilus and Sion on their own, and they won't need me or take me back. At worst they'll exile me again. I just..." She sighed a heavy sigh, closing her eyes momentarily. She reopened them and stepped out of Atton's reach, letting go of his hands. "That came out of nowhere. I'm sorry I ruined your dance."

"It's no big deal," he said. He gave her a close-mouthed smile.

"Where did you learn to do that anyway?"

"I'm from Alderaan, you derp," he said, grinning and taking back her hand. He kept talking as he pulled her back in the cockpit, and pushed her down into the co-pilot's chair, before taking his usual seat next to her, "Whole planet's nobility. Dancing is basically all Alderaanians can do. The fact that I play pazaak and can aim a blaster means I'm exceptionally talented."

Meetra smiled meekly at this. She was interested in knowing more about his past, but her enthusiasm was stifled. She felt guilty about not only having so frequently been in a bad mood lately, but also putting Atton in the uncomfortable position of confidant. She tried to flash him a bright smile, but it fell flat, so she just looked down at her lap instead.

"Meetra. What did you do after the war?"

"After the war?" she said, looking up and lifting her eyebrows slightly, "I...um. I wasted a lot of time. Then something happened, and I realised if I ever got the Force back, I wouldn't be able to handle it. So, I went to Tython."

"Tython?" Atton asked, leaning down and scooping up her feet, before resting them neatly on his lap.

"Oh it's..." She was cut off as her cheeks grew rosy once more, incited by Atton running his palms affectionately over the tops of her feet. There was something intimate and familiar about it, and though it wasn't necessarily unwelcome, it did make her slightly uncomfortable. "Ancient Jedi homeworld. Very sacred place."

"Bet they loved you there," said Atton, with a vague air of sarcasm.

"Yeah, well, planet's abandoned so no one complained. Hyperlanes are collapsed so it's almost impossible to get there. Told you I was a good pilot," she said, with a smirk, answering Atton's query before he had a chance to make it. "Anyway...It's been derelict for centuries. Got torn up by Sith, now the place is overrun with Terentateks and Flesh Raiders."

"Why the hell would you go there?"

"I wanted to go to Ilum, but I couldn't make the jump without the Force, so Tython had to do. I felt like I hadn't paid close enough attention to the Order's teachings when I was younger, and...I don't know. I thought I might find some measure of peace on Tython."

"And?" said Atton, raising an eyebrow.

"And I didn't really have any other option. Ship got destroyed in a Force storm and I was stuck there."

"For how long?"

"I lost track, after a while, but about four years, maybe, until Teethree found me."

"Are you serious? Four years, and that trash can saved you?"

"Yeah," she said, with a faint laugh, "Yeah, he did. I don't know how he found me. I still don't even know why, exactly. When I left, the big news was that the Order had taken down Revan, somehow, and...I was crushed. I don't even know how to explain what it felt like, thinking he was dead."

"So, just how close were you two?" asked Atton, eyes narrowing. He hadn't considered the possibility before, but the way her volume decreased and her eyes grew dark as she spoke triggered his curiosity.

"Very," she answered simply, then amended her statement when she understood, "Not like that. You didn't think..?" she queried, looking at him with an inquisitive expression. Atton just shrugged.

"I didn't really know what the deal was. Rhyssa once mentioned something about you and -" Atton stopped short, suddenly realising he'd grown too comfortable. His mind splayed, trying to think of a way to change the subject but it was too late.

"Do you mean Sularen? You knew Rhyssa Sularen?" she probed, sitting forward.

"Only vaguely," he deflected, face pinched.

"How?" she demanded with a fervour that made Atton squirm.

"Yeah, look, I don't want to get into it," he said, plainly. Contrary to his expectations, Meetra backed down immediately.

"Alright," she said, settling back into the chair. She shifted her weight around a little and decided that she quite liked having her feet on Atton's lap, and furthermore, she was very fond of the luxurious way he was rubbing the ball of her right foot with his thumb. So much so, that she did not particularly mind dropping that line of questioning, though her interest was still piqued.

"Alright," he repeated, thankful, "Okay, so...You go to Tython, and you're stuck there."

"Yeah. I go to Tython, and I'm stuck there. And I spend...years, alone. I go through the old ruins, I study what I can find. Old holocrons, books, anything I can get my hands on. I hunt, I meditate, I try to actually understand the Code instead of just memorising it. And in the mean time, I forget how nice it is getting proper haircuts, and how great medpacks are and how easy it is to waste hours reading rubbish on the Holonet and yes, how satisfying a trashy romance novel can be, and how much I really like eating food I didn't have to track and kill and gut myself. But mostly, I forget how damn good it feels to be around other people. And then...One day, this funny looking utility droid shows up in this ship and now I'm here with all of you, and I'm so certain they're going to send me away, again, Atton, and...I wouldn't have thought this a year ago, but I really don't want that. And if they do, I just...I don't know what I'm going to do."

Atton was non responsive for a minute, and just continued to gently massage her feet. She wondered if her long spiel had bored him and he hadn't noticed that she'd stopped talking. She was just about to ask when he shrugged and looked up at her, his expression very serious.

"Well, look," he said, matter of factly, "This is what I did after the war: I got drunk a lot, I played pazaak a lot, and I had sex. A lot. Which honestly sounds like a lot more fun, so let's do it my way."

"What?" she questioned, resting her elbow on the arm of the chair and her chin on her hand, her face quizzical.

"Get it in your ferrocrete skull, woman," he said, leaning over and affectionately knocking his knuckles on her head. "I don't want to be some damn cloistered Jedi. I'm here because of you. So if we get to Dantooine, and they 'exile' you or whatever again, then I'm coming, too. And we're not going to Tython, we're going to Nar Shaddaa, and getting fall down drunk and gambling away all our creds – which is a sure thing if you're playing – and having a lot of sex, either together or separately, whatever works for you."

Meetra blushed again, and Atton couldn't stop himself laughing at her. She wasn't usually a blusher, still she'd barely done anything else over the last week. She pressed a foot into his stomach and scowled as best she could, and Atton carefully placed her feet back on the floor, realising it was time to back off.

"Separately, huh?" she said, after a minute and Atton could tell by her facetious tone that she'd recovered.

"Yeah. I'll teach you how to pick up tanked Twi'lek dolls in bars, if you want. It's my speciality," he said, winking salaciously.

"Deal," she responded with a small nod.

"So, the route to Dantooine...Trace it or space it?" he offered, giving her a challenging head tilt, and gesturing at the console.

"Trace. Let's go," she confirmed.


	30. Silver ring

**Chapter Thirty**

_**There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact.**_

Meetra lay dazed. Kreia had smashed her head in two and spilt its contents over the floor of the Enclave on Dantooine. Frantic, Meetra's hands ran through her scattered thoughts for the answer to a question she should have asked many months ago, like a scavenger combing through the debris of a crashed freighter, hoping to find treasure. But it was not treasure Meetra searched for, but truth.

She felt weak, and it was difficult, for this place held too many memories and her sense of time was too distorted to understand their rightful order. Logically, she knew that the present moment always lived at the end, but the cold stone pressed against her skull, and she was thirteen again, a heated argument earning her a how-do-you-do with the floor courtesy of another student's Force.

She was eleven and standing obediently while Kavar, her sparring instructor then, spoke with his old friend, a fellow Jedi from Coruscant named Zez-Kai. She beamed as Kavar praised her and Zez-Kai allowed her to hold his double-bladed lightsaber, the first she'd seen, and she spun it into a beautiful violet curve of light, thrilled by the hum it made.

She was twenty-eight, and Kavar lay dead only a few feet away from her, but she couldn't understand.

She was six years old and Revan was twelve, right beside her, recounting his first foray into the galaxy beside Arren Kae, his own Master. She was envious, eager to see the cities and the stars that lay beyond Dantooine's gentle rolling hills.

She was three and having a tantrum over being denied a second dessert as an impatient Consular clucked her tongue in disapproval at such petulance.

She was twenty-eight, and Vrook was dead.

She was seven, and Arren Kae was asking question after question about what kind of Jedi she wanted to be. So intrigued was Kae by such a tiny little girl whose name she spoke with such a soft, specific tone that Meetra would never forget it.

She was fourteen and tripping over her tongue trying to pronounce Squint's last name, as he repeated it once more for her, a puckish grin on his handsome face.

She was twenty-eight, and Zez-Kai was dead.

She was ten and drenched, wringing her hair out and watching the drops gently splash on the ground, as the freak storm she'd been caught by thundered down outside. She flicked her wet hand at Bastila Shan, only seven years old, and the tiny flecks of cool rain landed on her pretty, little face that scowled in disapproval.

She was fifteen and slyly watching Revan talk to his best friend. At fourteen he'd just been boring old Squint, but now he was Alek and there was a flutter in her chest and all she could focus on was glorious dark hair, dark eyes, strong hands, strong jaw.

She was twenty-eight, and Vash was dead, and her blood forever stained the sleeves of Atton's robes, the man whose dark hair, dark eyes, strong hands, strong jaw caused more than just a flutter in her heart these days.

She was sixteen, begging Kavar to come with them, and though he refused, she could tell he believed in what she was doing. There was a warm embrace that bid goodbye forever to their friendship, for never the twain would meet with such affection again.

She was twelve and sparring with the other Padawans, easily besting them, full of a pride that made Vrook's brow crinkle with disdain.

She was twenty-eight and she could not think of a single person who had walked these halls with her that still lived.

She was twenty and standing here, awaiting escort to Coruscant, stun-cuffed and dressed against her will in Padawan robes, the sweet scent of kolto still wafting off her as it is wont to do after a week in the tank. Lonna Vash was running a hand through her hair with a tenderness Jedi rarely showed, trying to pacify her, trying to assure her that the Council would see the truth in her heart and show mercy.

She was twenty and finally realising that despite the initial hostility, they had intended on giving her a proper trial all along, but not before they stripped her of every last dignity, maimed her and broke her and showed her that they were the masters, in more ways than one.

She was twenty-eight, and the world was inside out.

Meetra's head began to spin again, as she lay paralysed on this cold stone floor her feet had crossed so many times that she had practically become part of it.

The strangest thing of all was that Kreia was there too. She was there, now, in the present moment. But Meetra saw Kreia in the past as well – a place Meetra knew that Kreia did not belong and had not been. From this strange position on the floor, where past and future and present all seemed to come at once, Meetra saw a figure walk in, dressed crown to toe in snowy white, and couldn't understand why she knew her name.

They spoke to one another and, abruptly enough that it made her stomach turn in horror, she found the truth she was looking for and finally understood. A chain hung from Meetra's neck, that threaded through a silver ring with an Echani inscription that she couldn't read. That ring she had taken from Arren Kae and kept all these years, though she'd lost it once or twice and had to spend more than a mote of effort to retrieve it. It was that. That ring she had taken, knowing of Arren Kae's daughter and intending, hoping, maybe one day to find her and give it to her as a small gesture of apology for having slain her mother. That ring, she understood now, belonged to Kreia. She tried but couldn't move, couldn't speak, could only watch, horrified, as this flawless, pale beauty of a girl left with the withered, blackened shell of a woman whose true nature and identity she clearly did not know.

Her memories were an ocean and Arren Kae was the moon, coaxing the tide up against the shore of stone where Meetra's body lay torpid. Eventually, she became submerged, and her consciousness gave way under the crush.


	31. Peace is a lie

**Chapter ****T****hirty-One**

**_Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, nor hell a fury like a woman scorned._**

It was with more than just a pang of guilt that Meetra had avoided her crew on the journey back to Telos. She had been cold and quiet ever since leaving Dantooine, barely able to speak for fear the mounting rage in her would come screaming out. She wasn't about to expose them to it, even if her dismissal of them hurt their feelings in the short term. No, she was reserving that rage for Atris and Kreia..._Kae_, she kept correcting herself. It was those two who would suffer the brunt of it, not her companions.

The sun was just beginning to peak over the misty, white peaks of Telos, and Atton, grumpy at being awake so early, was preparing the _Ebon Hawk _to land. Meetra was ready. She was infuriated by Atris, but primarily by Kae. She had spent too many years consumed by guilt over that woman's death and felt she'd paid the price. She intended to slit Kae's throat with glee as refund for all her wasted torment, and Atris' too for not sharing the information she needed to do it sooner. She knew the others would insist on coming with her and she did not want to be calmed, did not want to be reasoned with. She wanted blood and there was none she would allow to stop her. She was already lurking in wait before Atton even finished lowering the _Ebon Hawk_ outside Atris' snowy fortress. She slammed the release for the cargo ramp and it lurched before dropping with a sudden thump. From the cockpit she heard the frenetic beeping of the console warning Atton the ramp was out while they were still in the air.

She leapt the last fifteen feet to the ground and landed perfectly, with a little help from the Force. The ice crunched under her boots, and she felt a cold dampness seep through her soft, felt glove where it had touched the snow to steady her. She stood quickly, withdrew her lightsaber and activated it. She spun the blade in a fluid figure eight, the vibrant trail it left whipping past her vision as she walked. The air was frigid, but Meetra was too focused to feel it and her feet fell with the kind of power only anger can render, leaving deep dents in the snow. She heard a call through the Force – Atton, trying to ask what the hell she was doing as he desperately urged the _Ebon Hawk_ to hurry. She didn't stop because at that moment Atton could be nothing more than unwelcome tug at her conscience.

She strode without a faltered step through the fortress, and found it abandoned. She intended to go directly to Atris', but she sensed something had gone deeply wrong in this place, and she followed this intuition until it led her to the room where the Handmaidens slept. Five young girls, tucked up tight in their beds; so pale and angelic were their faces that Meetra could not see it, yet. She took cautious, quiet steps towards them, trying to determine the source of the dread that was nipping at her heels. Stopping at the side of one of their beds, she examined more closely, and finally saw the girl before her was not breathing. Flying, Meetra tore back the sheets to reveal a pool of blood and a deep burn through the girl's chest that she knew to be the mark of a lightsaber. She raced, frantic hands exposing four more mangled bodies. The sixth, the girl Meetra had seen on Dantooine, the one that wore Arren Kae's face, was not among them. But she assumed her to also be dead, anyway, and vulgar anger bucked in her chest again.

She stormed from the room and allowed her feet to chart a path to Atris' chambers. When Meetra entered, Atris squared her shoulders and let her chest puff. She did not seem a lick surprised to have a visitor.

"She said you would come. If you think you can defeat me here, you are wrong."

Meetra did not hear the words. As Atris spoke them, she surged to close the twenty feet between them in only a second and her lightsaber made a jarring shriek as it pierced the ground in front of her, a strong wave of her Force visibly rippling the air around her and causing Atris to stumble.

"You knew that she was Arren Kae, and you said _nothing_!" Meetra hissed as Atris rebalanced herself.

"It seemed something you should have been able to figure out on your own, and you did," said Atris simply, staring down at Meetra who was still crouched.

The look on her face was so smug Meetra found it intolerable, so she pulled at her lightsaber to free it then made a large, horizontal swing at Atris. The move was slow, and Atris was fleet, drawing her own weapon – the single-bladed, cyan-coloured lightsaber she had stolen from Meetra all those years ago. There was an electric purr as their blades met and they stared hard at one another, both pushing to their left until Atris' grip faltered and Meetra turned her lightsaber down. The duel commenced proper, and evenly-matched, neither was able to take ground from the other for a good few minutes. But Meetra found an opening, and kicked Atris square in the chest, sending her crashing to her back. She raised her weapon above her head, ready to strike but Atris flicked her hand, creating a sizeable gap between them as Meetra was thrown backwards, landing painfully hard on her wrist. She felt the joint go limp and rubbery, but spared it none of her attention.

"She killed them all, do you know that?" screamed Meetra, breathing hard and rapid.

"Yes, and now I am the last of the Jedi," responded Atris, brimming with pride and arrogance, elegantly pulling herself up from the floor. She readied her weapon again, and the two circled one another.

"You dare call yourself that?" spat Meetra. "When I came here, I thought you were the Jedi and I was the apostate, but I was wrong. You took the majority of them at Katarr, and now your foolishness has damned the rest of them, Atris."

"That...is no longer my name. It is not who I have been for quite some time, I think," said Atris, the calm tone of her voice closer to psychotic than serene.

Meetra saw a strange glint in Atris' eye, and it urged her to lunge again. The edge of her lightsaber slashed Atris' arm, who cried out in pain then extended a hand in retaliation. From her palm burst forth a stunning stream of deep orange lightning, that Meetra struggled to block with her weapon. She held her hilt with both hands, dutifully ignoring the pain that whipped and tore in her wrist, and channelled each ounce of strength she had, but began to lose ground to Atris who was advanced relentlessly. Meetra saw the need to take a chance and she stretched out her own hand and snapped it closed, trapping Atris in a crushing field of her Force. The tips of Atris' toes swept the ground and moments later Meetra dropped her like lead.

Atris crawled to her knees, panting. Her hair was coming loose from its tight bun and stray, white strands hung in her eyes. She looked pathetic to Meetra, whose fury was not subsiding but only growing stronger.

"Why did you kill the Handmaidens?" she demanded, as she watched Atris struggle to stand.

"She required it. They were an obstacle," Atris offered, shaking out her wrist, then reigniting her lightsaber.

"To what?" pressed Meetra, fiercely.

"To see the true heart of the Sith. And you...she told me you were the last. That I would face you, and when you died, I would see," said Atris, her voice growing manic as she spoke. She had recovered now, and Meetra saw nothing but insanity in her.

"Fight me, then," she responded darkly, sliding her feet to form _Shien_.

The battle began anew at Meetra's spurring, much faster and brutal than before as Meetra had completely abandoned any intention of fighting honourably. Atris tried, but Meetra's rage was too intense, too acute, her moves too fast, too vicious, too hard to dodge. They locked lightsabers again, and Meetra saw Atris' hand slide and suddenly remembered something about that lightsaber she had forgotten. A peculiar feature of Revan's invention and she ducked only just in time to miss a second blade emerge from the other end of the hilt. As Meetra stooped, Atris slammed her knee into Meetra's face. The blow stole Meetra's attention and she faltered. Another huge arc of ochre lighting sailed down at Meetra and she instinctively took the same action she had taken to subdue Revan and Malak, and cut Atris' connection to the Force. Meetra, perhaps the most adept practitioner in Jedi history of this cruel and peculiar attack, spent no effort performing it, and rose confidently, exhilarated by her own power, as Atris fell to her knees, impaired and pathetic.

"Does it hurt?" cooed Meetra, menacingly. "Does this still seem like a fair fight, to you?"

"What...What have you done...?" questioned Atris, staring at her palms in confusion.

"Get up," demanded Meetra, taking slow steps towards her. "Fight me!"

Atris shook her head, still bewildered and visibly startled as Meetra slammed her saber into the ground to Atris' right.

"Fight me!"

She withdrew it and slammed it again on Atris' left. Meetra's eyes were intense, almost inhuman, and Atris was actually frightened of her, then. There was a low rumble, and Atris looked up to see several fine cracks spreading across the ceiling, tiny spirals of dust raining down from them.

"Fight me, or I'll crush you," growled Meetra and Atris felt herself lifted to her feet by Meetra's Force.

Atris was panting, still in deep shock, and no sooner had she reignited her lightsaber was Meetra back on top of her, pushing her backwards with endless savage stabs and swings. A peal of sparks rained over them as Atris' lightsaber connected with the wall, her strength failing under the raging crush Meetra had become. Atris was at an extreme disadvantage, not only untrained to fight without the Force but also suffering a strong physical reaction from its removal. Their lightsabers pushed against one another forming a vibrant blue and green cross, and Atris did not expect Meetra to simply reach through the beams and slam a fist into her neck.

Atris reeled, winded, and Meetra easily wrenched her weapon away with the Force, sending it sliding across the floor far out of reach. Meetra heard the metallic clank and remembered, years ago, throwing that same saber at Vrook and the way it landed on the floor, the way it gave Atris an opportunity to run that cursed plasma through her flank. A new wave of anger hit her and she backhanded Atris, who fell to the floor. Breath ragged and fast, a trickle of blood escaped Atris' mouth as she lay there, exhausted and confused. Meetra was incensed by this.

"Fight me!" she screamed, raising her foot and delivering a swift kick to Atris' ribcage. It was not with her own strength, but the full strength of the Force that she dealt that blow and it produced a sickening crack, the tell-tale sound of broken bones. Atris gasped and rolled to her side, drawing her limbs close, clearly overwhelmed by pain.

"You've won, is that not enough?" she mewled through haggard breaths.

"I've won? _I've won?_" bellowed Meetra, before setting her foot down in the same place she had kicked, and pressing to turn Atris onto her back. She used her full weight to drop her knee into Atris' chest, then moved to drive her blade through the woman's neck, but Atris' hands wrapped around the hilt as well and there was a struggle as they pushed against one another. Meetra was livid, almost unbalanced, and this only made it worse.

"Do you know what you did to me? _Do you know what you did?_"

As she howled these words, tiny flecks of saliva hit Atris' brow and cheeks, and Meetra felt a sting in her throat as it was grazed by years of compounded bitterness. Meetra looked deep into Atris' eyes and saw only fear. She compared it with the look Atris had given her when she had forced her saber through Meetra's gut and robbed her of her ability to bear children. Apathetic. Dispassionate. Cruel. And so that was exactly what Meetra returned now.

Two pairs of hands gripped the hilt of Meetra's lightsaber, but Atris could do naught to stop it as the heated beam lowered towards her neck. She felt the singe against her skin and closed her eyes in an attempt to accept what was about to happen, when a scream pierced the silence and stayed Meetra's hand.

"No!"

Both women looked immediately to the source of the cry, and Meetra saw the last remaining Handmaiden. Arren Kae's daughter, Brianna. She was wielding a long staff banded with silver, and she looked ready to attack Meetra, apparently unperturbed by the danger of such an action.

"Release her!" demanded Brianna.

"She's not what you think," leered Meetra, allowing her eyes to glance back down to Atris, who looked more cowardly than Meetra had ever known her.

"She is a traitor. Do not heed her words," said Atris.

Meetra was so revolted by the lie, she pressed her knee harder into Atris' chest in retaliation. She stared hard at Brianna and hissed, "She killed your sisters while you slept."

"No..." said Brianna, softly, glancing back and forth between Atris and Meetra, trying to discern the truth.

"She stabbed them, but took care to remove the covers first and then replace them so you would not see the blood."

"Atris?" asked Brianna looking straight at the broken, pathetic woman, lying crushed beneath Meetra.

Atris closed her eyes and exhaled a rattled breath, the shame beginning to move through her and suffocate her voice. Meetra was not paying attention anymore. Her focus had slipped from Atris, though her blade remained steadfast. She watched Brianna's face contort in grief and shock, watched her chest rise and fall. She was very young, but Meetra saw herself in her. She realised this girl had grown up motherless, just as she had. That she found the maternal nurture she needed in Atris, because there was no one else to provide it, just as Meetra had found it in Kae. And she realised that Kae had led her astray, just as Atris would do to Brianna, if she did not stop it.

"Brianna..." said Meetra, determined to quell her anger in light of the new responsibility she felt for this girl.

"How do you know my name?"

Meetra considered making an attempt to explain the situation, but decided instead to pull the silver chain from around her neck and toss it across the floor in Brianna's direction. Without taking her eyes from Meetra, Brianna took a few hesitant steps and lowered her body to retrieve the chain. She held the ring it looped through in a trembling hand, and read the inscription inside.

"Where did you get this?" asked Brianna, and Meetra was relieved it obviously meant something to her, as she had never been able to read it herself and the gesture was a gamble.

"Your mother and I were once close friends. I took it from her belongings after her death. I knew of you, and it was always my intention to give it to you, but I did not know how to find you until now."

The anguish on Brianna's face was evident and Meetra, as was her nature, had already begun to bond with this girl through the Force and felt it very clearly. She had resolved long ago that, though she was capable of manipulating the emotions of others, she would never again do it. But she saw a need now, and she outstretched an invisible hand to bring a temporary calm to the girl, who sorely needed it.

"Atris has fallen. Your mother was a good woman. A true knight. And she would not want you to follow her," spoke Meetra, and even though her words were lies she meant them. She could no longer understand anything about Arren Kae, and chose instead to speak of the woman she thought she had known. "It was Atris' treachery that killed the last of the Jedi, Brianna. Listen to me. She killed your sisters because she is Sith."

"Is this true?" demanded Brianna, looking directly at Atris.

"It is not such a simple ma -" began Atris but Meetra gave Atris' chest another jab with her knee.

"Is it true?" Meetra repeated on Brianna's behalf, with far more force.

"Yes," said Atris, so simply it was almost unapologetic. Her eyes flicked back up at Meetra. "Kill me, then. Is that not what you have come to do? End this."

Meetra wanted to. So badly did she want to that she could barely find the strength to hold back and she teetered for only seconds but it felt like hours to her, as she tried to decide Atris' fate.

_There is no emotion, there is peace._

It seemed a joke to her, even after years of trying to unravel its mysteries.

_Peace is a lie, there is only passion._

That she knew to be far truer, because there had never been serenity inside her.

_There is no death, there is the Force._

She felt there was none who knew the true depth of that lie better than her. She had died at Malachor, and been left to endure as her mind and body decayed, abandoned by the Force.

_The Force shall free me._

And had it not?

Had these grievous wounds not finally begun to heal now?

Had they not?

Meetra lost herself in the cruel depths of Atris' eyes and there was a pull in every direction, and she could not find the strength to fight it. And then Atton's voice called her name.


	32. A hook in her spine

**Chapter Thirty-Two**

_**Justice and judgement lie often a world apart.**_

Meetra was perched atop Atris, seconds away from forcing the blade of her lightsaber through the treacherous woman's throat. She was convinced that she would feel so much better with Atris' dead, that the nectar of revenge would sooth the savage burn in her chest. Though she railed against the call of the darkness, its siren song was seductive, and she realised now that facing Atris alone had been a mistake. In a moment of pathetic defeat, it seemed inevitable that she was going to kill Atris, and then Atton's voice called her name. That familiar sound launched itself like a hook in her spine and dragged her kicking and screaming back to the light. When she turned to look, they were there. The Order. At least, what she realised then would one day become the Order. Mical, Mira, Bao-Dur, Visas and Atton, poised and ready to prove their fealty to her. The decision became clear, if not easy. The blood of war is thicker than the water of the womb, and by fighting beside her and standing with her, these fledgling Jedi had made themselves her family. There was no retribution she could render with the weapon in her hand that could compare to that forming right in front of her.

She held out her hand and Atris' lightsaber, that was really Meetra's lightsaber, sailed obediently into her palm. She stood and felt shaky, still looking down with intense, fiery eyes at Atris. She had decided to spare Atris, but it was testament to the unfixable damage the woman had wrought on Meetra's soul once long ago, when Meetra suddenly plunged her blade through Atris' gut. Atris screamed shrill and piercing, and Mira and Mical had to look away. In a way she found both undignified and satisfying, Meetra spat on her.

"That didn't hurt you as much as it did me," hissed Meetra.

Atris, who had never known Meetra as well as she thought, did not take her meaning, but Atton's mind pieced it all together and he understood. He thought back to when he held her, naked and broken, and through the Force he had fumbled blindly and found a well of grief so deep he was not sure it had a bottom. He considered sparing Meetra the dilemma and just killing Atris' himself, but knew, better than she did right then, that she was not the sort of person that could find peace in that.

"Mical," Meetra said, still thrown. She took stiff steps backward as though she no longer trusted herself to deal with the situation. "See to her but...be careful."

"Yes, Master," said Mical with a nod, and it seemed so appropriate that even Atton didn't roll his eyes at the loathed M word.

Rather, Atton abandoned all pretence and moved to Meetra, taking her face in his hands to inspect the damage done to her. "Are you alright?" he asked in a hushed, concerned tone and she nodded quickly but she was clearly distracted.

"Not now, Atton," she said, pushing him away with gentle hands and, though he was momentarily baffled, he understood as she took swift steps to Brianna, who was standing there stupefied.

"Brianna," she said, pressing her good hand against the girl's forearm, and in a hasty decision fuelled by the realisation that it was a necessity, she returned a crown to her head that had been taken long ago. "I am Jedi Knight Meetra Surik."

"My sisters..." said Brianna, weak with shock.

"It's going to be alright," said Meetra, trying to sound comforting but the burn of anger left her mind exhausted and her voice hollow. She glanced around and Atton was watching the two of them, a protective and suspicious gleam in his eye. Visas was assisting Mical, and Bao-Dur and Mira were standing nearby, still armed should Atris try anything. Meetra looked back at Brianna. "This is a deeply traumatic thing, make no mistake. But you must endure. I will assist you to the best of my ability."

"You knew my mother...?" enquired Brianna. There was a distracted quality to her voice that was only growing more pronounced with each word, and Meetra could tell what she needed most of all was time to process what had happened.

"I did."

"This blame lies with me...I brought that woman here."

"No. You are not responsible for the actions of Atris or...or...her..." struggled Meetra, who found herself growing queasy.

"Who was she?"

The question made Meetra feel suffocated, for she did not feel ready to answer it. Instead she shook her head and squeezed Brianna's arm a little tighter.

"There will be time to discuss this, later. I think you should rest, for now," she said and was relieved when Brianna slowly nodded. Meetra turned to face Atton. "Will you...help her find somewhere to lay down?"

"You're hurt, Meetra," said Atton, as refusal. Truthfully, he was far more concerned about Meetra at that moment than this stranger in white.

"I'm fine," she said. It was not dismissive. Instead, he sensed that what Meetra needed most desperately right now was to be away from the girl, though she had not shared enough of what she knew about the situation for him to understand why. He only nodded, walking over and extending a hand.

"I'm Atton. Atton Rand," he offered and Brianna only nodded, again. He awkwardly closed his hand, then retracted it, before deciding to take a chance and placing a hand on her back to lead her out of the room. She left with him, face close to expressionless as was the depth of her daze. He tossed a look back at Meetra as he left, and she returned a weak smile.

She stood for a moment, watching them descend the great, stone steps and she felt a wave of nausea as she became aware of the intense pain in her wrist. She looked down and was surprised by how bad it looked. Purple and swollen, with her hand at a strange angle that told her it was most certainly dislocated if not broken. She turned her head to observe Atris and the remaining members of her party. She strode over and knelt beside Atris, who she realised was more badly injured than she had initially thought. Atris was pale and sweaty, and though Mical had stemmed her bleeding, she was obviously still in quite a lot of discomfort. Meetra did not particularly care, however, and she wrapped the fingers of her good hand around Atris' chin and gave it a condescending tug.

"You might like to know, _Atris_, that the Council has convened regarding your fate, and there are no roads forward from this point that correspond with your goals. You see, unfortunately, the Council is just me, now, because you killed the rest of them," said Meetra, in a tone that was simultaneously dark and mockingly joyful. She ignored the uncomfortable look Mical shot at her and continued staring directly at Atris.

This repetition of her own words from years ago was not lost on Atris, and she glowered at Meetra in response.

"When Mical has seen to your injuries and mine, we will be having a very, very long chat, do you understand me?" asked Meetra, narrowing her eyes.

"I will tell you what you need to know," said Atris, stiffly.

"That's a good girl," she said, giving Atris a tiny pat on the head. She took a step back. She tucked her injured wrist into the sleeve opposite to form a makeshift sling and looked to Bao-Dur. "Bao, will you accompany me?"

Bao-Dur nodded obediently, and followed her out of the room.

"That girl...Brianna..." started Meetra, with a suspicious toss of her head back at Atris' chambers. "I cannot decide what the correct course of action is. It seems cruel to leave her here, but I need someone to watch Atris."

"Can she be trusted to watch Atris, General? You have known her only a short time."

"I have other motivations. She's Force-sensitive. Very much so, I think. I would like to train her, one day, but...the timing is bad. Plus, I cannot leave Atris here alone and I feel this would be a good test of character for the girl. Still, I do not want to cause her unnecessary trauma."

"Sometimes trauma is what forges strong women, General," offered Bao-Dur and Meetra took the compliment with grace.

"Thank you," she replied. She sighed and closed her eyes momentarily, before stopping and turning to face him. "Bao-Dur, I need to know...At Dantooine, Kreia told me something..." She trailed off, suddenly stuck for words.

"What is it, General?" asked Bao-Dur, kindly to encourage her.

"I got the impression that what happened to me at Malachor was intentional on Revan's part. That he wanted the Mass Shadow Generator to...create a wound in the Force. Did you know of this?"

"I was only a tech, General. If there was a motivation beyond defeating the Mandalorians, I was not told of it."

Meetra nodded. "Bao-Dur?"

"Yes, General?"

"Did you know Arren Kae?"

"The Jedi Master? I...did, but not well. She had some input on the Generator, but we socialised by no means. I doubt she even knew my name."

"Were you aware that Kreia and Arren Kae are the same person?" asked Meetra, and there was an acidity in her voice that she could not mask.

"No, General," responded Bao-Dur, in a tone so serious and genuine Meetra believed him instantly. Though even if she had not, there was no time to continue this line of questioning, because as he spoke, Atton returned to her side, placing a gentle hand on her back. She did, however, spare a moment to acknowledge how habitually forward Atton was becoming and at the bottom of her already lengthy list of tasks to complete, she made a note to solve the problem that was Atton Rand.

"How's the girl?" enquired Meetra, turning to look at him.

"As good as she's gonna get, I guess. Pretty shaken up," shrugged Atton. He was not being casual, so much as pointing out there was little he could do to help her, and Meetra agreed with this, so she simply nodded. She looked back at Bao-Dur.

"Atris has killed the girl's sisters. If she is to stay here, we will need to assist her in burying them. I can't...handle the logistics, right now," she admitted. "Maybe...you and Canderous, if he's up by now..?"

"I'll see what can be done, General," assured Bao-Dur with a nod, and he departed, leaving Atton and Meetra alone. She did not want to be alone with Atton. They seemed to be switching roles of late, where Atton was dependable and she was a mess. The situation was becoming alarmingly complex for Meetra. She knew Atton loved her, because it was slowly becoming evident in all he did, but she could not be sure if these feelings were his own, or just hers reflected. And if that was the case, and she was subtly manipulating him through the bond he was oblivious to but she knew they shared, she could not allow such an injustice to go ahead. She would not be with a man against his will. Not again, not after the damage she had wrought to Alek.

"Give me a look at this," said Atton, fishing Meetra's wrist out of her sleeve and holding it with a soft touch.

"I think it's dislocated. I'm sure Mical can fix it," said Meetra, trying not to wince.

"To hell with Blondie," said Atton, with a grin. He pushed a hand against her shoulder, urging her to sit, and she obliged. He sat opposite her, cross legged, and pulled a stim from his belt. He ripped the plastic cap off with his teeth and jabbed it in her thigh, then wrapped a tight hand around her forearm, and the other around her palm.

"What are you doing?" she asked, with a concerned frown.

He gave her a small, knowing smile. "Ready?"

"Ready for wh-!" her words were cut off by an involuntary scream as Atton yanked hard and the joint popped back into place. She panted for a minute, then glared. "You fragging bishwag, Atton Rand. If this didn't hurt so fracking much, I'd slap you."

"Hey, hey, hey. Don't get any ideas just yet, princess, I haven't even got to the best part!" he enthused, quite amused by her anger.

"Don't call me princess," she half-snarled. Her nose twitched into a grimace. "What's the best part?"

He moved his hands so they were more thoroughly covering her wrist, and closed his eyes. Meetra watched curiously. Atton gave a small nod.

"Yeah, that's broken," he said in a very off-hand way.

Meetra waited, in silence, and then felt it. Warmth – an almost uncomfortable warmth – and a distinct tingle wavering somewhere between an itch and a tickle, and as the pain began to drain out of her wrist, she realised Atton was using the Force to heal her. She wanted to launch at him with questions immediately, but held her tongue so as not to break his concentration. Twenty or so seconds of silence passed, and then Atton released her, opening his eyes and giving her the smuggest look she'd ever seen.

"Since when can you do that?" she demanded, clearly impressed.

"I...might have asked Blondie to show me some tricks," he admitted, and Meetra could barely believe how mature he seemed, until he grinned and added, "You know, figured I didn't have anything to feel threatened by...after Korriban."

"Don't think that slap's not still on the table," she said, narrowing her eyes, though her tone was not dark.

"Women," responded Atton, rolling his eyes, "You do something nice and all you get is abuse."

"If it bothers you that much, I'll just keep my hands to myself, then," she said, voice syrupy and it was Atton's turn to narrow his eyes, though the corners of his mouth lifted a little at her words.

"Hey, Atton," she said, suddenly serious. "I need you to tell me something."

"Ooh, I've got a bad feeling about this," he said, scanning her face and finding not a shade of the gentle jest from just before.

"This is important, alright? And if you won't tell me, then this is one time I won't have any problems digging around in your head and there won't be any amount of pazaak cards that are going to stop me, you got it?"

He sat, quietly, and only gave a curt nod in response, trying not to be offended by her words.

"How did you know Rhyssa Sularen?"

"Seriously? It's about that? I told you I worked for the Sith. She trained me," he said, brows knitting.

"No, no. Rhyssa died at Malachor, before Revan and Malak publicly aligned with the Sith."

"Well, whatever, same thing," he said, casually tossing a hand up.

"No, it's not the same thing. It's not the same thing at all, because Rhyssa Sularen trained elite soldiers as part of Arren Kae's plan to create a...a spec ops team that could do the kind of...morally challenging things that we couldn't without breaking the Code."

"Yeah, well, I thought you were okay with all this?" he spat, and Meetra saw him grow defensive and inwardly cringed.

Though Atton's paranoia remained, Meetra had no concerns about the content of his character. She did not need specific details to know she had done worse than he, and she did not weep for any of the Jedi whose blood he had spilt. She was busy enough condemning her own past to be concerned by his. Furthermore, she was noticing subtle but undeniable changes in him, and she trusted the wisdom of Solari, the crystal that powered his lightsaber, and knew he would not find it easier to carry each day if the ash that stained and clung to his heart was not slowly washing away.

"You know that I don't care what you did," she said, very firmly, "It's just...I thought you started after Malachor. But...You must have known Arren Kae. You must have."

"I...think I spoke to her a few times, maybe, but so what?"

"Do you know who Kreia is?"

"An old withered crone?"

"She's Kae, Atton."

"What? How is that even possible? Kae was...well, she was pretty good looking, and Kreia's...Kreia," he finished with a sour look.

"Please, just tell me the truth. Did you know?"

"I didn't know, Meetra. And if I had, I would have told you. That's the truth. That's all I've got."

Meetra nodded.

"Is that good enough?" he demanded, in a way that was almost but not quite sarcastic.

"It's good enough."

"Good. Frag, woman, why would I protect her?" he asked, rubbing the back of his neck and giving Meetra a frustrated glance.

"I'm sorry, Atton. It's...been a really long...Well, I was going to say day, but I guess year is more apt. Really long year," she said, with a sad smile.

He leaned across and kissed her, then, because he was sick of waiting and was sick of her being so doleful and was sick of trying to pretend he didn't care about her. It was a simple kiss, and he made no fuss over it, trying to impress upon her that this was just how things were going to be now unless she had the guts to tell him otherwise. She kissed him back because she couldn't help herself, and when he pulled back, she was surprised to see a smear of blood on his lip, which she touched with her index finger, then realised it was hers. He gave a small laugh then drew his bottom lip over his top and the blood was gone, removed by his tongue.

"Oh, frack," she cursed, touching her own face and realising her nose had bled a significant amount. She'd never had the daintiest nose, and her vanity distracted her from Atton for a minute as she hoped it wasn't more crooked and skewed than usual. She touched her forehead in frustration and to Atton she looked utterly spent. Thinking back to Korriban again, he remembered how dreadfully thin she had become. It was hard to tell just looking at her, so infrequently did she wear anything that was tightly-fitted or didn't entirely cover her. But he knew.

"You want to go get some breakfast?" he asked, casually, refusing to feel any embarrassment over the kiss, "Because, you know, I didn't get chance to eat, what with you just jumping out the damn ship before I'd even landed it. Afraid of heights, my ass."

Meetra smirked, a little surprised that she had done that at all.

"Breakfast sounds good. I should probably wash my face, too," she conceded with a small lift of her brows. Atton stood with little effort and extended a strong hand to her.

"Let's go, then."


	33. Kissed you on purpose

**Chapter Thirty-Three**

_**A rejection is nothing more than a necessary step in the pursuit of success.**_

Meetra stood in front of the long mirror in the _Ebon Hawk's _refresher. When she had walked in she was startled by how much blood her nose had shed and was very relieved to find it was not broken. She was sporting a particularly nasty black eye, however. Force healing was never an area of expertise for her, but she fixed it herself with only a modicum of fuss. She washed the crusting blood from her face and stared a moment more at her reflection. It was hard not to find the face that stared back disappointing. She looked pale and drawn; her intake of food and rest having slowly dwindled down to almost nothing over the last few months. It was finally showing, and she felt ugly. The first time she'd looked in this mirror had been shortly after she had left Tython with Teethree. It was the first time she had used a proper refresher in years, and it was exhilarating. She had groomed herself with care, excited by hot water and real razors; a pleasing contrast to icy cold river water and the edge of the hunting knife she kept strapped at her hip. Afterwards she had stood in front of this mirror, in nothing but her underwear, all silky legs and perfectly shaped eyebrows and shiny, clean hair. She had stared deeply at her reflection – so much fresher, fuller and tanned then – and suddenly felt a hand clench tight around her throat. She remembered flicking her eyes down and the mirror somehow showing nothing. And then she woke up choking on kolto at Peragus.

Meetra gave her head a sharp shake. There wasn't time to wonder what had happened then. She headed out, making her way to the galley. Meetra rarely made time for breakfast, but after having almost killed Atris in a fit of rage, a brief deferment seemed a wise choice.

She rounded the corner and slipped into the cramped kitchen. Atton was there but he did not look up. He was making tea, presumably for Meetra, and there were two bowls of phraig. Meetra was not particularly fond of phraig, for it was bland. But it was also warm and filling and an appropriate choice for the frigid weather of Telos. She walked over and took a place beside Atton. She was pleased to see he had already set out both honey and cream and she didn't hesitate in trying to doctor her breakfast into something more appetising.

"You could have told me I had a black eye, Atton," she said, and they simultaneously glanced at each other. Atton smirked.

"I didn't notice," he responded, adding sugar to Meetra's cup.

"Sure," she said, and her smile widened, spurred on by his salacious tone despite the nonsensical nature of their exchange. Without saying anything, he passed her a spoon and though she wasn't even looking, her hand just reached out to take it. A sweet warmth passed over her for a second because they felt like a couple, and she had to mentally kick herself for being so silly and sentimental. She was exhausted and full of self-pity, and a harsh voice inside her head cooed that she had no reason to believe Atton felt anything genuine for her.

"So," began Atton sliding the cup towards her and taking his bowl, "That was pretty intense."

"You could say that," she said, exhaling hard and then shaking her head. "Force. I wanted to kill her. She's a Jedi, and so am I or...was or whatever, and I wanted to kill her."

Atton took a spoonful and chewed slowly, while Meetra just poked at hers.

"Well, I can't judge," said Atton, shrugging. His casual tone gave Meetra a transient shock.

"You said...You said once that you enjoyed killing Jedi. Why?" she asked, encouraged by how relaxed he seemed.

"It felt good," replied Atton, plainly. Curiosity passed over Meetra's face, and Atton continued, "Physically, I mean. Like...spice and sex and winning a really high-stakes game of pazaak all at once, but better. It wasn't in the lead up, it was the moment they died. It felt amazing. I don't know why, but it did. And after the first time, I couldn't stop."

Meetra took a seat in the galley's small booth and finally began to eat. Atton noticed the slight grimace on her face and brought the jar of honey with him when he sat opposite her. With a grateful smile, she dug her spoon into the honey again, determined to completely hide the phraig's dull taste.

"Do you still want to? You know, kill Jedi?" she asked, and though the question was potentially loaded, she asked it in such an earnest way that Atton, for once, did not feel uncomfortable.

"No. Not so much," he replied, voice quiet and thoughtful.

"Any idea why?"

"No. I mean, it used to drive me insane, sometimes. I'd get this...yearning and it would make me feel like I was turning inside out. Even years after, it would just hit me. But it doesn't really happen anymore."

"Maybe because you're Force-sensitive," mused Meetra, looking up with sincere eyes.

"Maybe," he said, too unsure to have an opinion.

"No, really," she emphasised, "After I lost the Force at Malachor, everything felt so wrong. It was like being incredibly thirsty or itchy or hot, but nothing fixed it. Took years for it to wane, and even then I think all I was doing was ignoring it."

"How's that the same?"

"I'm just theorising," she asserted, pointing her spoon at Atton, "But, when a Jedi dies, there's a...flux of Force energy. I'm guessing you felt it because you're sensitive, and, maybe because you were never trained to feel it on your own, it seemed good. Felt right, you know? Maybe your body learnt to crave it, like mine did when I lost it. Probably never would have felt it if you were killing civvies instead of Jedi. But you know, you open a door and sometimes you can't close it."

She stopped and there was a silence, filled only by the clink of spoons against ceramic. She looked up, but Atton was avoiding her gaze, brows knitted and face concerned.

"Meetra?" he asked, abruptly.

"Yeah?"

"Why didn't anyone notice? I'd had plenty of interaction with Jedi before the...before the last one I killed. But it was only that last one that knew."

"That you were Force-sensitive?" clarified Meetra.

"Yeah. And, well, you can obviously tell. Why didn't..." He broke off and made an awkward gesture before taking a breath, and Meetra saw that as her cue to talk.

"Most Jedi can't spontaneously detect another's sensitivity. It's usually done by blood test. I think I'm able to tell because I form bonds easily, but I don't know about this last Jedi of yours. Was she anyone in particular? Did you know her?" asked Meetra, tilting her head.

"No," snapped Atton, more forceful than he intended.

"Then, I don't know. Sorry," said Meetra, giving him an apologetic shrug. Atton nodded but he looked defeated, and they continued to eat in silence.

"It was good tea," said Meetra, attempting to ease the discomfort.

"I have many talents. All of them useless," replied Atton, snapping back into his usual debonair tone and expression.

"Take the compliment, schutta," said Meetra with a grin.

"That was a compliment? I finally get a compliment from Miss Meetra Surik and it's 'good tea'? Disappointing."

"Alright. Alright. You're..." she said, trailing off. She made an exaggerated frown as though she was thinking very hard, then pointed. "Oh! Good at pazaak."

"Come on," he urged. He rested an elbow on the table and gave her a crooked smile. "Not handsome? Suave? Liver made of durasteel?"

"I suppose all of those things are applicable," sighed Meetra, teasing him with a roll of her eyes. She took her cup, stood and walked back to the counter.

"You suppose? Don't go overboard, I wouldn't want you to strain something," cooed Atton. He watched her rinse her cup for a moment, then rose and stepped towards her.

"How could I forget? You're considerate, too..." she said, her voice waning into a whisper as she felt Atton press against her mid-sentence. He placed his hands on her hips and for a moment she was thrown by the intimacy. He ran his lips over the soft skin and downy hair at her nape, and her back and shoulders tensed with what seemed like arousal to him. Encouraged, he snaked an arm around her front, fingers on her jaw, and tugged. He kissed her and after a moment she turned her whole body to face his. He stopped to push her hair back from her face and she exhaled with a smile during the brief reprieve, but did not get a chance to speak before Atton pushed again, hungry to keep hold of the moment.

"Too short," he muttered, frustrated, as he clamped his hands around her waist and hoisted her to the counter. The kiss continued for a few moments more, both affectionate and frantic, as were their hands. Eventually, Meetra tried to shake her head to stop him, but he held her jaw firm to deter her.

"Please, don't," she breathed as soon as there was an opening to speak, but she did not follow her own directive, and neither did Atton. He did slow himself, however, and made an effort to move his hands to a location more innocent and affectionate than they were when she had spoken. Meetra, in an effort to see his face, made an awkward attempt to gently push him back. He responded by kissing her with more force and aggression than before and was pleased find her receptive, and even more pleased by the way her chin bobbed forward when he pulled away.

"Let's talk," he said, through laboured breaths. She gave him a curious frown, and he continued, "I want you. And you want me. If I'm wrong, then I really must be an idiot, because it seems pretty obvious to me. Keep saying you can't, but never stop me. I mean, your dirty, little mits are still on my ass, Surik."

She blushed and he felt her shrink before she crossed her arms in discomfort. She looked close to sheepish and Atton grinned at her.

"Put 'em back. I'm not complaining."

"Atton," she chided, giving his chest a weak slap with the back of her hand.

"Come on, Meetra. I healed you, didn't I? You owe me," he jested.

"If that's how it works, I should really tell Mical," she countered, eyes wide with mischief.

"You're not funny, Meetra," he drawled, smirk morphing into a frown. Meetra laughed and gave him a mocking pout. In retaliation, he grabbed her sides and the resulting tickle produced a fidget and a squeal from Meetra. There was a moment of congeniality between them, where each mooned at the other with love-struck eyes and Meetra forgot all the reasons she had to say no, and Atton ignored the pain her constant rejection caused him. Their foreheads touched, and a moment later their eyes closed. Atton nuzzled her nose with his and kept his voice very low.

"Please, Meetra."

One last time, he kissed her, and tried to imbue it with every last shred of affection he had for her. The intensity of this robbed their concentration, and neither heard the metallic click-clacks and whirs of approaching company. Indeed, neither noticed their small audience at all until Atton felt a thump against his shin.

"What the hell? Hey!" he called out, looking down to see Teethree looking back up. Teethree rammed Atton's shin again with an indignant whistle and Atton gave him a thwack with the side of his foot in response. "Cut it out."

"Crestfallen assertion: oh Master. This is more disappointment than I am programmed to handle in one day."

"Excuse me?" asked Meetra, staring straight at HK. Her voice was stern but it was quite clear, to Atton, at least, that she was flustered.

"Despondent explanation: first you fail to kill the Jedi meatbag that betrayed you, and now your face is covered with slimy goo from the mouth of the meatbag that is always crashing the _Ebon Hawk_. Dis_grace_ful."

"Get kriffed, HK," asserted Atton with a scowl. Meetra tapped the back of her hand against his stomach, and he looked at her with curiosity.

"Atton..." whispered Meetra, with a small nod, and he realised he was still planted firmly between her legs and she wanted him to step back. He hesitated, and Teethree jostled against his leg again, intent on protecting Meetra, whistling and hooting with fervour.

"There's a name for what you're doing, you rusty little bucket of bolts. It's not flattering."

"Veet reeet reet!" responded Teethree, and made an aggressive jab at Atton once more.

"Ow, frag. You just ran over my foot, you little bastard! Get out of here before I scrap you," hissed Atton, throwing a glare at the diminutive droid.

"Step back, Atton," said Meetra, voice calm and quiet.

"They're interrupting! Why should I?" argued Atton. He jutted his chin out with defiance and Meetra grinned.

"Because clearly it's distracting. For the droids."

"Oh, I see what you did there," said Atton. They exchanged long, fond looks and Atton ran an index finger over the back of Meetra's hand.

"Frustrated interjection: Master, it is indignity enough that I am performing an errand for a meatbag. Please do not subject me to your pre-mating banter."

Meetra's head snapped to HK.

"What errand?"

"Statement: the blonde meatbag wants me to relay that the Jedi you failed to slaughter has important and time-sensitive information."

"Are you talking about Mical and Atris?" she asked, voice all business.

"Of course he is," groaned Atton, "Mical's just as bad as the trash compactor."

"Deet reet reet!" said Teethree and he gave Atton a mild jolt from his shock arm.

"Ow! I g – I get it. Back off," said Atton with a twitch.

"I kissed him on purpose, Teethree. I promise," said Meetra, looking down at the droid and giving him a smile.

"Veet ree dee," said Teethree, and somehow sounded stern.

"Surprising revelation: I agree with the astromech droid. Just say the word, Master," said HK, looking at Atton with a menacing glimmer.

"No! No one is maiming Atton."

"Damn right, they're not," said Atton, with a grimace.

"Now, look," said Meetra, "I want both of you to go, and you..."

"Dweep ree?" responded Teethree, looking up at the finger Meetra was pointing at him.

"No. Not a beep or a whistle or a chirp, mister. You keep this to yourself."

"Dwoop," agreed Teethree, with a distinct degree of reluctance.

"And HK," she started, looking squarely at him with austere eyes, "You say anything about this to anyone, and I'll shove a hydrospanner in your vocabulator, got it?"

"Amused query: Is that a threat, Master?"

"Sarcastic qualifier. I would never," responded Meetra with a syrupy smile. She clicked her fingers and pointed to the door. "Now, seriously. Shove off."

Teethree whistled in compliance and sailed out, HK plodding along behind him. Atton and Meetra looked at each other, then Atton's expression grew smug.

"Kissed me on purpose, huh?"

Meetra slid off the counter and took a few backwards steps towards the door.

"I should go talk to Atris," she deflected. Atton was reasonably satisfied for the time being, so he didn't push.

"Do you want help? I've, you know, actually interrogated a Jedi or two in my time," he admitted, with a shrug.

"Yeah, I was really going for more of a friendly chat, you know?" she said, with a raised eyebrow.

"Well, don't be surprised when that backfires. She's still cut about shavit you did a decade ago, let alone the fact that you almost went all Sai Cha on her ass this morning," pointed out Atton.

"Sai Cha? Have you actually been listening to me, Atton?" she asked with an incredulous look. She placed a hand on her hip and widened her eyes.

"Schutta, please," dismissed Atton, "When do I ever?"

Meetra laughed, then grew quiet. A dark expression filtered over her face.

"Atton...I'm really..." she said, struggling.

"Look," he said, flatly, "Don't. You don't have to. I get it."

Meetra nodded and turned. Just before she disappeared, Atton called after her.

"You should know, though...I'm sick of waiting."

She turned back immediately. He was teasing her, but she looked so distressed that Atton regretted it.

"I didn't say I was going to stop, dummy," he said, smirking at her. He leaned against the wall and folded his arms across his chest. "Now, get out of here."

She bit her bottom lip but the corners of her mouth turned up. She nodded and flitted out the door. When she was gone, he turned his head and gave his forehead a soft thump against the wall.

"Dammit, Meetra."


	34. Snow and shallow graves

**Chapter Thirty-Four**

_**Your absence has gone through me like thread through a needle. Everything I do is stitched with its colour.**_

"So, I lanced Meetra."

There was a crunch as Bao-Dur's shovel hit snow. He looked down at Atton who was standing in a half-dug grave.

"Excuse me?" asked Bao-Dur. He didn't sound shocked, so much as unimpressed.

"You know, charged her loading ramp," replied Atton with a smug grin.

Bao-Dur remained silent.

"We had sex."

Bao-Dur looked away and dug his shovel down into the frozen soil with a strong push from his foot. The air was freezing and his clothes were soaking wet from the snow, but he was sweating from the exertion of digging graves for the handmaidens. Canderous had bailed, back aching and hands numb, about twenty minutes ago. Before he left, he had finished digging two in record time, and then Atton had taken his place.

"I gathered," said Bao-Dur and rolled his eyes, "I just don't understand why you are telling me."

"I don't know if you've noticed, but I don't really care for the majority of you beek-monkeys," drawled Atton.

"I think it's more that the majority of us don't really care for you," replied Bao-Dur in a serene tone that made Atton scowl.

"Shut up, horn head," snapped Atton, then glanced around to make sure no one else was in ear shot. "Look. I think Blondie's an idiot, and Mira thinks I'm an idiot. I hate the droids, Canderous creeps me the hell out and Visas talks in riddles."

"So?"

"So, I need to talk to someone, and you're the only person besides Meetra around here I can tolerate."

"That's not as flattering as you think it is," stated Bao-Dur. He glanced at Atton who was grimacing. "Fine, go ahead."

"Good. Okay. Look. So, it was a couple of weeks ago, and...the whole thing was kind of strange but it was amazing," enthused Atton. He let his shovel lean against the wall of dirt and made a demonstrative gesture. "She's amazing – when she was on top, she did this figure eight thing with her hips and -"

"The point, Atton. Get to it," interrupted Bao-Dur. Atton's hands dropped to his sides, and after a moment of standing there in silence, he went back to work.

"I want more. From her. I just can't seem to get anywhere."

"Maybe you did not impress her as much as she impressed you," offered Bao-Dur with a small smirk.

"Oh, frag off," said Atton and tossed a dark look at Bao-Dur.

"Why must you always come to me with these problems? Do you want me to ask her out for you, Atton? Maybe you could write her a love letter and pass it to her during Jedi lessons."

"Don't be a prick, man. I want your advice," pleaded Atton.

"You're a grown man. Just talk to her."

"I tried that. It didn't work. Frag, I don't know. I'm in love with her," said Atton, and gave the dirt wall surrounding him a frustrated kick.

"Are you basing these feelings entirely on one sexual exchange? Because that might be a bit...premature."

"Force. No. Look, I've been in love before, I know what it feels like. I just don't understand why it's so damn hard with her."

Bao-Dur rolled his eyes. "You only notice her when she's with you."

"What?" demanded Atton.

"Every thing we do, she's there. Every task we complete, she's there. She never just stays behind on the ship. She makes every decision, usually on her own. She's training five people to use the Force, and even though you probably haven't noticed, she gives all of us as much time as she does you. If you're finding her unreceptive, it's probably because she is already stretched too thin."

"You think?"

"She chooses to spend the few spare moments she has in your company. I don't know how much more she has left to give after that."

"How would you know?"

"I think I see something different to what you see, when I look at Meetra."

"Hold up. Did you just call her Meetra?"

Bao-Dur raised his eyebrows at Atton and gave him a challenging head tilt. Atton frowned in thought.

"When we ran into you that first time, how did you recognise her? Without, you know, all the gunk on her face."

"During the war, I saw her quite a few times without it," said Bao-Dur with a casual shrug.

"You didn't sleep with her, did you?" accused Atton, glaring at Bao-Dur and suddenly feeling an acidic rush of jealousy.

"She was practically a child, Atton," chided Bao-Dur. Atton could see he was clearly disgusted by the notion, but it didn't make him feel any better.

"Yeah well, from what I heard, that didn't make much of a difference," muttered Atton, letting his mind travel back and sift through old memories.

"And where did you hear that, Atton?"

"Nowhere," deflected Atton, then sighed. "Okay, look, I served. I was just a pilot, and I don't know, there were a lot of rumours."

"We met when Revan commissioned the Generator. I heard the rumours, too, and from what I saw, I wouldn't be surprised if some of them were true. But her interaction with me was very...innocent. She was interested in my work. She was a sweet girl, intelligent, and I think war was a bad fit for her. I think it affected her in a way that she is ashamed of now."

"If you guys were so chummy, why didn't she remember you?"

"She didn't seem to know anyone after Malachor. I was there, with her, when she gave the order. Everything was working fine, at first," started Bao-Dur, then stopped. He looked down at Atton with a gravely serious expression, "Then she started screaming, and when I looked over at her, she was bleeding from her nose and her ears. She had a seizure and was taken away by medics. I only saw her once after that, and whatever happened, she wasn't the same."

Atton's foot was poised mid-dig, brought to a halt by the strange feeling washing over him. Bao-Dur's words conflicted with something Atton had long believed in. A war began, inside him. Though he had always known it was inevitable, denial had been a faithful friend for months now and in its absence, his stomach churned.

"What do you mean?" he asked, finally.

"I mean, that..." Bao-Dur trailed off, sick of this discussion. "Why all the questions, Atton?"

"I don't know. Do you think she regrets it?"

"Regrets what?"

"Malachor," stressed Atton. He sounded almost angry, and though it surprised him, he felt almost angry, too.

"Every day, I think."

Atton regretted starting this conversation, as his throat grew tight. Cold air nipped at every bare scrap of skin, but his face felt hot and though he tried to fight it, a slurry of old memories kicked him in the chest. He slammed the blade of the shovel into the ground and it stood tall when he let it go. He scrambled out of the hole, ice and mud smearing over his trousers.

"I have to go," he muttered. Bao-Dur said nothing, and Atton headed for the_ Ebon Hawk _in haste. As he walked, he heard Meetra call his name. She sounded harried but Atton didn't stop.

"Atton!" she called again, more loudly this time. Atton threw her a lazy, sarcastic salute, but didn't turn back.

He trudged up the ramp of the _Ebon Hawk_ and was glad he didn't pass anyone as he made his way to the cockpit. He felt foolish. He loved Meetra but right now, it didn't feel like anything but a betrayal. He'd been able to ignore it until he'd said it out loud. There was an angry crush around his throat and he made a stiff bite, trying to ease it. He closed his eyes, angry at himself and angry at Meetra because when he was young and stupid, he had unknowingly walked into a cage and she had locked it and thrown away the key, even if she didn't know it. He slammed his fist against the wall of the cockpit and had to gasp because he didn't feel like he could breathe.

"Atton?" said Meetra, and hearing that name felt like a slap in the face. There was a small hand on his back, but its owner was the last person he wanted to see right now. It didn't seem to matter though, because she repeated his name in such a soft, tender tone, that all he could do was turn towards her. His hands grappled to pull Meetra close as quickly and tightly as he could; he didn't want to see her face, and didn't want her to see his, either. He bit down to arrest the grief that was thrashing around inside him and slouched against her, knees bent. Meetra held his bowed head against her chest and ran her hands through his hair.

"What happened?" she murmured.

Atton didn't speak but held her tighter in response. She hushed him and her voice was sweet and soothing. The cacophony in his head began to dissipate and he realised how wet and cold his clothes were. Pressed against his, Meetra's body was warm and though he didn't want to, he felt comforted by her presence.

"Hey," she started, softly, "I know it's a bad time, but...we have to go, like, right now. It's Nihilus. I'm sorry."

He gave her a stiff nod and tried to clear his throat.

"I'll prep the _Hawk_," he said, trying to fight the huskiness of his voice. She gently pushed his head back to look at him, and gave him an affectionate smile that wasn't happy but had a nigh unbearable warmth.

"I have to get everyone together, then I'll be back," she said, torn between concern for Atton and panic at what Atris had disclosed to her. She suspected whatever had upset him had little to do with their exchange in the galley earlier that morning, and was something larger than she had time to deal with right then. She threaded her fingers through his and squeezed, hoping that was enough. He stood up straight, and rolled his shoulders, trying to regather his dignity. His display embarrassed him, and he was eager to move past it. Their eyes met, and Meetra was temporarily unnerved by the piercing quality of Atton's gaze. He gave her a nod and turned towards the console.

"Where are we going?" he asked, voice gruff.

She fought the urge to go back over to him, and commanded herself to focus.

"Citadel Station."

"You got it."


	35. Jaq meets Meetra

**Chapter Thirty-Five**

_**It is a simple but sometimes forgotten truth that the greatest enemy to present joy and high hopes is the cultivation of retrospective bitterness.**_

He ran a finger around the soft circumference of her breast then closed his hand over it and gently squeezed. Her body was warm and tender and beautiful. She turned to look at him, with a smile that was loving and sweet, and he felt nothing but happiness. Before her, he'd been with only three kinds of women.

The first were the girls with whom he had attended school. So prim and proper and crushed under the pressure of being perfect at absolutely everything. They were dirty, almost ravenous, but so deeply ashamed of their sexuality that it made him feel ashamed, too.

The second were the girls that worked as maids and waitresses on Alsten Thul's yacht. They were more open and laid back, but he was so uncomfortably aware of the similarities between their pointless, wasted lives and his own, that he could barely stand to talk to them.

The third were the girls he picked up in bars. They usually had nothing going for them, besides being easy and too drunk to say no. There was never conversation, and the encounters he had with these girls were so empty and sloppy that he could find little satisfaction in them unless he was desperate.

And then there was her. This beautiful female Jedi, body wedged against his. He'd never known a woman more beautiful. Wild eyes, wild hair, the Force wuthering around her like an angel standing strong in a hurricane. She was fearless and opinionated and she didn't need him. In the short time he had known her, she'd shown him how much potential dwelt within him; she spoke to him in a way no one ever had. He found her intoxicating. Being Jedi, it had been no small task to convince her to give him the time of day, but the pursuit had exhilarated him. And what came after it was somehow even better. Hand closed tight around her breast and her perfect face looking right at him, still sweaty and flustered, he knew he was in love with her.

"Rhyssa," Jaq whispered.

"Mmm?" she hummed, still exhausted.

"You're perfect."

She rolled her eyes, then laughed. It was such a gentle, lilting sound; the sound he favoured most.

"Shut up, Jaq."

He nudged her jawline with his nose, smiling. "No, really. You are."

"Don't get any ideas, flyboy. You know, attachment is bad, etcetera. I just wanna hit and quit it," she replied, but her tone was warm and she sounded pleased.

"Is that so?" he asked, cocking an eyebrow.

"Yeah."

He turned her body gently so her chest was pressed against his and their foreheads were touching. "So, you wouldn't want to me to tell you that I love you, I take it?"

She was silent for a moment, but her eyes glittered and it made Jaq smile again.

"Yeah, I wouldn't want that, at all. And, um, I wouldn't want you to think that I love you, too."

"Understood," he said, and gave her a very soft and brief kiss before grinning.

The moment was ruined by the holoterminal ringing in the background. Rhyssa cursed, and scrambled to find her robe, which she slipped on and pulled tightly around her waist to hide how little she was wearing underneath. Jaq sunk down low, hoping he was out of sight, and Rhyssa flicked the tiny switch on the terminal. A blue light illuminated the room and a hologram of Cale Berkona's head and shoulders flickered into view.

"Rhyssa, Surik's here," he said, voice tight.

"Great," replied Rhyssa, exhaling sharply. "For Malak?"

"Wants to see you, actually," he explained and Rhyssa gave a disgusted groan.

"Well, I'm busy," she snapped. Her impatience made Jaq grin. "Can't the poor little precious wait?"

"Supposedly not. It's about what they have planned for Malachor. Seems pretty serious. She's waiting in Con 4B."

"Fine, fine," she said, rubbing her cheek with her palm and giving another terse eye roll. "Thanks, Cale."

She switched off the terminal and turned around to face Jaq again.

"I have to go. Princess needs attention," she drawled, and it was obvious just how unimpressed she was.

"The General?" he asked, propping his head on his hand and raising his brows.

"Yeah."

"But I just got here," he argued, holding out a hand to beckon her back to bed. She sauntered over, and with a gentle push of her knee to turn him on his back, she perched herself atop his pelvis and grinned down.

"We're not all on leave, Officer."

"Well, whose fault is that?"

"Malak's, actually," she said, frowning and looking up as though she had to think about it. "Do you want to come?"

"Again? So soon?" he replied with a facetious lilt in his voice, as he busied his hands removing her robe. She gave him a playful slap.

"Don't be crass, Jaq," she chided. He grabbed her sides and pulled her down so their faces were close.

"I don't want to go. I don't think you should either," cooed Jaq, attempting to kiss her. She allowed him only one brief kiss before she pulled herself away and to her feet. She wasted no time in beginning to dress and he watched her, hypnotised.

"Meet me when I'm done?" she asked, raising an eyebrow and Jaq nodded.

She reached around behind her to secure her obi, then threw her robe over her shoulder. She leaned down and kissed him again.

"Don't love you."

"Don't love you, either," he replied, voice gooey and pleased.

She walked backwards towards the door and gave him a small wave, which he returned. She hit the release, and she was gone. Jaq sighed and shifted his weight around, enjoying how soft the sheets were. For a few minutes, he indulged himself with a mental recount of the morning's activities, then, satisfied, he got up. He lazily gathered his uniform and began to dress.

Rhyssa's team was responsible for sabotage, and Jaq was particularly good at it. Along with two of his colleagues, he'd managed to replace an entire ammunition shipment with faulty product. It had been bound for a fleet of Mandalorians who had consequently marched into a face to face, ground based battle, completely unaware that their weapons now rendered about as much damage as a child's pop detonator. The Republic had mercilessly ground them into the dirt. Such a success was the operation that he'd received not only two days of leave, but a handshake and hearty pat on the back from Malak, too. Jaq had spent the first quarter of his reward in Rhyssa's blissful company, which he'd been without for far too long, in his opinion. The war occupied most of their time, and she was as dedicated as one could be to the effort, not to mention that she carried a mote of guilt over breaking Jedi rules. All of which culminated in them having little quality alone time. The end of the war seemed closer than ever – indeed, the current rumour amongst the ranks was that Revan had a plan that would change everything – and in quiet moments like this he wondered what would come after. He didn't want to be without Rhyssa, and though he suspected she might return to the Jedi temple on Coruscant and that would be that, he hoped against hope she would stay with him.

He finished the last button on his shirt and checked himself in the mirror. His hair was messy, like always; a big, floppy lock of hair falling in his eyes and the back standing straight up. He decided he didn't particularly care, and just placed his soft, felt cap on his head and pinched the brim to pull it down.

He poked his head out the door and glanced around. Rhyssa was strict that no one should know about their romantic liaison because she felt it affected her credibility as a Jedi. Some part of him was almost offended by that, but he tried to be understanding. He was on Malak's ship. Rhyssa worked directly for Malak and was primarily based here. The ship itself was large and hulking, not as decorative or pretty as Revan's but with specs that impressed the pilot in Jaq. There was always a lot of Jedi with Malak, so Jaq knew there was a need for constant caution here. He found the hall relatively empty, so he wandered out and locked Rhyssa's door behind him. He meandered down the hall, relaxed and carefree, trying to search his foggy mind for the number of the room where Rhyssa had gone to meet Surik. It was hard to find because he had buried it somewhere beneath mental images of Rhyssa naked and all the things he planned to do with and to her by the time his leave was up. He found the room, eventually, though it took him longer than he expected, and he was surprised to hear raised voices. The door was still open and, recognising one of the voices as Rhyssa's, he decided to eavesdrop.

"How can you even consider that? Have you completely lost it?" demanded Rhyssa. He peaked around the corner and saw the two women standing only a few feet away from each other. Rhyssa looked outraged, but Surik's face had a deadly calm. At least, he thought so. It was hard to tell under the costume she wore.

"It is necessary," replied Surik flatly.

"No. It's suicide," hissed Rhyssa, throwing her hand up. She shook her head, with her mouth open in shock.

"So?" asked Surik, and though it didn't show on her face, Jaq could swear she sounded amused.

"So, I'm not doing it," said Rhyssa, "Malak's not going to approve, you know."

"Please, you're only here because we needed numbers. He won't care," said Surik. She leaned in and spoke so quietly Jaq barely heard her. "You're just a hand holding a lightsaber. Nothing more."

"And you're just a whore holding Malak's prick," seethed Rhyssa, speaking through clenched teeth.

There was a tense moment of silence, and then Surik jammed her hand out in front of her and clenched it into a fist, and Rhyssa's body lifted, toes brushing the floor, hands clamouring at her neck. Surik took slow steps towards Rhyssa who continued to thrash and struggle against the tight pressure around her throat. Surik let go but caught Rhyssa, arms hooked under hers, and the two women sunk to their knees. Surik whispered to Rhyssa but Jaq couldn't hear what she was saying.

At that moment, he wanted to step in. He knew that a good, brave man would but he was more a coward than a hero. He watched Rhyssa's expression morph until she sobbed. She nodded in a way that looked reluctant and then Surik rose to her feet, looking as smug and satisfied as Jaq had ever seen a person. She walked towards the door and he snapped back around the corner, spine flat against the wall. She swished past him and he felt a flash of the courage he'd been so desperately searching for a moment ago. He reached out his hand towards her, but his grasp fell short because he didn't dare lay a hand on her.

"Hey," he called, trying to keep his voice level and masculine, "Don't touch her again."

No sooner did the words leave his mouth did he hope she hadn't heard him, and he felt sick when she stopped dead.

"Or what?" she said, head snapping towards him.

"Or nothing, General," he replied, voice stiff, looking at her but straight through. He cursed himself for being so weak but tried to keep his face blank. Then she did something that surprised Jaq. Her head tilted slowly, and she smiled. It wasn't an easy, happy smile, but slightly manic and unsettling.

"I get it. That's cute," she said. She looked Jaq up and down and he squared his shoulders. "Would have thought you were a little...Hmm." She stopped and wrinkled her nose. "_Scruffy_, for her tastes. I guess you have some charm, though. Like a puppy, almost. Tell me, puppy, do you do tricks? Can you sit? Roll over? Play dead? Shake hands?" she asked, extending her hand and wriggling her fingers.

Jaq stayed silent, confused by this line of questioning. Surik took a step closer and touched her gloved index finger to his chin.

"Do you love her? Is that it?" she cooed, then dug her fingers hard into his chin and gave it a condescending tug, "Does she make you beg?"

She leaned in even closer, until her nose was almost touching his and he felt her hot breath against his mouth.

"Because I bet I could," she whispered. Jaq returned steely eyed defiance, but between her towering height and the deep pools of black that were her eyes, he felt small, and too timid to respond. A strange feeling washed over him. It was something akin to lust, but mingled with shame and revulsion. A second later, Surik released him. She turned in a swift motion and walked away, pitch velvet cape dragging soundlessly behind her, and he could only stand there, frozen, watching her retreat.


	36. Atton

**Chapter Thirty-Six**

_**Happy the man whose wish and care a few paternal acres bound, content to breathe his native air in his own ground.**_

Somewhere far away, in another time and place, Atton set his suitcase down, and shook the hood of his jacket. Winter was coming, and the rain was intense. He'd always loved the rain. It had never struck him as gloomy, rather it seemed full of promise. Still, he was getting utterly soaked and couldn't wait to change into something dry. So, he shook his hood to dislodge the gathering drops, then picked the case up again and kept walking. He glided through the streets as though pulled by an invisible tether. It was half memory, for he'd grown up here and knew the winding passages like the back of his hand, and half love, desire for what awaited him behind his front door. He made a sharp left into the high-rise apartment building he called home, and crossed the lobby with a lazy but jovial salute to the doorman. He stepped into one of the polished durasteel turbolifts and hit the button for his floor.

While he waited, he pulled off his sopping jacket, carefully removing a pazaak card from its pocket and sliding it up his sleeve, before tossing the wet mass of fabric over his shoulder. The lift dinged cheerfully, and Atton smiled. He made his way through the halls then stopped before his front door; a most welcome of sights. He punched the code in and door obliged by sliding open. No sooner had the door closed behind him and he had placed his dripping jacket on one of the hooks that lined the wall, was he assaulted by a tiny body that barely reached his hips. Little hands grabbed at his pants and he looked down and beamed. He considered kneeling for a moment, then decided just to pick the small boy up and draw him close to his chest.

"Hello, Edus," he said in a voice that was deep but kind.

"Dad," stated the boy, only ten years old, and he didn't need to say another word to make Atton happy.

"Did you miss me?" asked Atton, an amused tone in his voice. The boy nodded enthusiastically.

"Did you bring me anything, Dad?"

"I did!" enthused Atton, and set the boy down. He knelt, now, on one knee, and pulled the boy onto his spare. With a stylish flick of his wrist, the pazaak card flipped out from its hiding spot in his sleeve and obediently settled on his palm. It was gilded in gold and caught the light in a way that made Edus give an enchanted coo. "Tie-breaker card. Very rare," explained Atton and grinned at the way Edus' tiny hands grabbed at it with zeal.

"Can we play?"

"In a little bit," said Atton, resting his lips against the boy's crown briefly. "Where's your mother?"

"In the kitchen. She made cake!" squealed Edus, suddenly so excited he was almost shouting.

With a gentle hand, Atton pushed Edus off his knee and gave his backside a tap.

"Go get your deck ready. I'll come see you later."

Edus nodded, then hugged Atton's neck just a little too tight and trundled off down the hall, eyes glued to the card Atton had given him. Atton rolled his eyes in a way that was nothing but affectionate. He placed a hand on the ground and pushed to stand, then navigated his way to the kitchen. She was standing there, back to him, leaning in the door way, surveying their living room. He took careful, quiet steps to keep his presence a secret then gently pressed his lips against the back of her neck. She startled and almost dropped the cup of tea she was clutching to her chest. When her head turned, she looked livid but it quickly faded into a joyful, dimpled smile.

"Atton, you're home," she whispered and hugged him, careful to hold her tea cup steady so its contents did not spill.

"Hello, angel," he grinned, rubbing his cheek against hers. He pulled back and kissed her. It was a tender, sweet kiss, the kind he had longed for in his absence over the last month.

"Mmm!" she said, as though she had just remembered something, then lifted her index finger to her lips. She jerked her head backwards, and Atton looked over her shoulder to see his last two children, a boy and a girl, six and four, sitting in a big soft armchair on the far side of the living room. The girl was tucked under the boy's arm, and he was reading to her from _Hesperus and the Evening Star_. It was an old fairytale, about a Jedi Padawan completing her trials. This copy had many detailed, beautiful illustrations and they were what made it the boy's favourite. He wasn't a particularly strong reader, but Atton had read it to him so many times he knew the words by heart. So did Atton, for that matter, and he knew exactly the part they were up to – where Hesperus fights a Sith Apprentice.

The boy stopped reading when the girl whined and pressed her face against his chest.

"Are Sith make believe?" she asked, voice holding a small quaver.

"Nope," said the boy, shaking his head. He sounded excited by the prospect.

"Are they here?" she pressed and looked up with big, wide eyes.

"Probably," shrugged the boy, with a devious gleeful look he had inherited from his father. The girl howled and fidgeted.

"What if they get me?" she whispered, "Oh, what if they get mamma?"

"Don't be dumb, Delta," replied the boy, giving a smug jerk of his chin, "I'll protect you, and mamma."

"How?" demanded the girl.

"I'll shoot holes in 'em!" said the boy, making toy guns with his fingers. The girl seemed to ponder this for a moment, then held out her finger.

"Pinky-swear?"

"Pinky-swear," he promised, hooking his little finger with hers. "I'm your big brother. It's my job, dummy."

"Edus is bigger," she said.

"But I'm better. I bet the Jedis will give me a light-saver!" he enthused, then squashed his lips together and attempted to imitate the electric voosh of a lightsaber while the girl watched on, clearly besotted by her brother.

Atton squeezed his wife's sides, and she turned back around to him.

"Miraculous," he said, raising his eyebrows. "What did you do to them, while I was gone?"

"I wish I knew," she said, pouting and raising her palms. Her eyes flicked down, soon followed by her head. She looked back up at Atton and frowned. "You couldn't have taken your shoes off? Celes only cleaned the floor this morning. She'll have a conniption."

He looked down then glanced behind him and saw he had left a trail of muddy foot prints across the tile.

"Ooh. Sorry," he said, making a face. She clucked her tongue so he pulled her closer, taking one of her hands. He took a step backward, pulling her with him and tried to lead her in a dance. She obliged but kept frowning. He stopped and lifted her arm, and she did as he wanted and twirled. When her face came back around again, it bore the smitten expression he was after.

"I missed you," he said, softly.

"I missed you, too. It was beginning to feel like you were never going to come back."

Atton gave a snort of laughter, then held her face and kissed her.

"Wild rontos, Delphine. Nothing could keep me away from you."


	37. Jaq's last Jedi

**Chapter Thirty-Seven**

_**Love is whatever you can still betray. Betrayal can only happen if you love.**_

Jaq's hands were clenched tight in his hair as he shook his head. "Shut up, shut up, shut up."

"Look at me, Jaq. You don't have to do this. I can help you," she pleaded, trying to keep her voice strong.

"I'm trying to think," he shouted and the words hit her like a slap across the face. She closed her eyes and bowed her head. He looked at his hands and they were trembling. The silence bought him a moment of superficial calm but it wasn't long before she found another reserve of courage and looked at him again.

"Do you remember, Jaq? 'Sometimes our way is clean, sometimes foul...'" she started and he slammed his fist against the wall so hard it made her jump.

"Don't," he growled, mind racing to think of a way to shut her up.

"Sometimes up hill, sometimes down," she continued and Jaq scrambled across the floor on his hands and knees, fumbling for the bowcaster he'd held so confidently only a few short hours ago. He grasped at the slide and pulled out a tranq dart, wasting no time in scrambling back across the carpet towards her.

"We are seldom so blessed as to find certainty. While the wind is no -" she stopped, her words cut short by a shrill squeak as Jaq jammed the dart in her neck. She squirmed against the binds he'd trapped her in and he took her face in both his hands, holding it so tightly that it hurt her. His gaze was so piercing it almost frightened her and the Somatoll began to fog her mind. It was all that she could do to close her eyes and keep talking. "While the wind is not always pressed against us, neither...nei...neither is..."

His desperation somehow both swelled and depleted as the woman's words slurred.

"Neither is every man we meet with on the way a friend," she struggled as her eyelids fluttered, "But we follow the Force and.."

Her neck went limp and her head was heavy in his hands. He thought the noise in his head would subside when she fell silent, but it just seemed to get louder. He looked at her perfect, calm face.

"We follow the Force and allow not its darkness to consume us, but its light to guide us. When you grow tired, Hesperus, know that every man suffers, but heroes always stand again," he finished for her, in quiet, husky tones and the words were blades in his throat. He let go and her head bobbed in such a pathetic way it made him feel worse. He stood and crossed the room, stepping awkwardly over the body of her dead Padawan, the soles of his boots not missing the pool of blood and leaving crimson marks on the carpet. He checked the time. Five to four. It would not be long until the hotel started to buzz back to life and the maid came with clean towels. He had to hurry.

He sat on the edge of the bed and played with his comlink, trying to get the words together in his mind but he was so exhausted and confused that when she picked up, he still didn't know quite what he was going to say.

"Officer Randolph," she said.

"Master," he said, lost.

"Is there a problem?"

"No. Well, yes. I was tracked by a Jedi and..."

"I am aware," she replied.

"What?" he asked, forgetting himself.

"I felt it through the Force. You have killed her Padawan, have you not?"

"Yes."

"And you have captured the Knight, have you not?"

"Yes."

"Then what is the problem?"

"I...can't," he stopped and swallowed hard. "I can't kill her. I can leave her here and you can send someone else, but I can't do it. She's...frag."

Jaq felt a blinding pain in his forehead and could not keep talking.

"I am aware of who she is. You will kill her. Or I will, myself, and then I will kill you. Do you understand me?"

His nose stung and his eyes welled but he nodded, defeated, feeling utterly trapped. He realised she couldn't see him and forced a reply.

"Yes, Traya."


	38. Faceful of elbow

**Chapter Thirty-Eight**

_**A sudden bold and unexpected question doth many times surprise a man and lay him open.**_

On Citadel Station, Atton Rand and Meetra Surik lay only feet apart.

Both on their backs.

Both staring at the ceiling

Both trying to pretend the other wasn't there.

Meetra inhaled, but the breath caught in her throat and turned into a heavy, exhausted sigh. The stim she'd jabbed in her thigh earlier was doing its job but she knew she'd been awake too long to last like this much longer. She clenched her teeth and focused her vision on the groove where the wall met the ceiling. There was light spilling in from where the metal rollers over the windows didn't entirely close and every now and then there was a flash of blue or red. The tiny blinking stand-by lights of various devices in the room. The holovision, the holoterminal.

Citadel Station's brand of quiet disarmed and upset her and she hadn't slept since she'd woken up on Peragus. She couldn't, she didn't dare. Instead, she chose to get by constantly taking adrenal stims. For years she had comfortably slumbered in a roughly made hammock slung up in the entrance hall of one of the abandoned Jedi temples on Tython. There were no artificial lights there, only the comfort of darkness. And the sounds she heard were that of the temple sighing under the weight of overgrown plants, bird calls, the occasional howl of a Flesh Raider, too stupid to pry its primitive feet from one of the traps in her maze. There was never the murmur of people speaking outside or speeders passing the window. Every time someone shouted in the hallway she jumped. She'd been lonely on Tython at first, especially after she realised she was trapped there. But she got used to it, and now being around other people made her feel sick. So the worst thing, perhaps, was listening to Atton Rand breathing.

Atton was such a strange man – one of the stranger she'd met. Alarmingly hostile and charming at the same time. There seemed little sense in lying to herself; she was ridiculously attracted to him. Dark eyes, dark hair, strong hands, strong jaw. There was the forelock always hanging in his eyes, the gentle swagger, the way he'd casually hit on her one minute and seem completely exasperated by her the next. Apparently she just liked being tortured, because she'd always had a type, and he was almost exactly it. When she was younger, more rash and more confident, she would have simply propositioned him but everything was more complicated now. She didn't have a single clue what to do about it.

Stranded on Tython, she'd sought asylum in Jedi teachings and in the process completely suppressed her carnality. The way she saw it, if she hadn't been so desperate to make Alek love her, then none of it ever would have happened. She never would have ordered thousands of men to disarm minefields with their lives instead of their wits just to stretch and strengthen her power. She never would have been so blithely cruel to those around her so she would have a chance to wrestle their anger into submission. She never would have hurt Alek. She would have noticed that Revan was falling. She would have listened to Alek when he told her not to use the Generator. Maybe Revan and Alek would still be friends. Maybe Alek would still be alive. It was her stupid, selfish little heart that had ruined so many lives. And so she had decided, years ago, that for once she would heed the words of those wiser than her and turn a deaf ear to the pleas of the pathetic creature that dwelt within her chest.

But the floppy forelock, and the gentle swagger and the crooked smile of Atton Rand had squirmed past her defences. She'd spent years without a single thought of being touched like that passing through her mind, and now she felt like she was going insane with desire for it. She tried to justify it. It was probably just how long it had been for her. It was probably just that Atton was the first man she had seen in years. Maybe it was because her last time had been not with Alek but with Malak. Maybe because though it had been consensual, he'd just told her Revan was dead, and he'd been far too rough with her and it was painful and upsetting and he couldn't even kiss her because of what Revan had done to his face. Maybe because it was followed by the humiliation of being marched down a hallway like an animal, wearing little more than her torn shirt and that stupid apron still stained with blood, audience of dead-eyed Sith watching. Maybe because he'd thrown her in a shuttle like a rag doll and told her to go to Tython or Ilum or one of the other abandoned Jedi planets, because, he'd claimed, it wasn't just Revan, the rest of them would never stop looking for her either. Maybe because she still didn't know what that meant and now, according to Atton, Alek was dead, and it hurt. It hurt in a way so painful she didn't have words to explain it. It hit her like a punch to the chest and she exhaled, expecting a sigh but getting a shudder instead. She reminded herself that Meetra Surik does not cry. Not anymore. And she made herself frown with grim determination and kept staring at the ceiling.

It wasn't working, so she closed her eyes and willed herself to remember some of the more repulsive and cruel things she'd done in her life. Tried to remind herself that none deserved sympathy less than she. That brought her back around to another problem. The Force. She knew without any doubt that she simply did not want it back. If she had the Force back, it meant under no circumstances could she trust herself. And it meant no one else could trust her either. But it seemed to be moving through her like some kind of aggressive cancer and she did not know how to push it away.

She opened her mouth and made a useless bite. She turned her head to look at Atton, and was unnerved to find him staring right at her. She turned over, showing her back to him, eager to break his gaze.

_Scoundrel._

_Schutta._

Atton looked back up at the ceiling. He could not deny that this bed, flimsy and cramped though it was, was leagues more comfortable than the Force cage he'd been stuck in for days or the quick nap he'd had in the pilot's chair of the _Ebon Hawk_ on the way here. In a lot of ways, this plain little apartment was even better than the dumpy shoebox on Nar Shaddaa that he called home. He never thought he'd long to be back there, but he definitely did now. There were a lot of ways to describe that place and none of them were good. Dank, musty, cheap. There was some kind of plumbing problem he didn't understand and didn't really care about, but it always made the sheets slightly damp and the walls mouldy. It had only one window that he'd never been able to open, and a shower that ran searing hot or ice cold and nothing in between. The light above his bed had a barely noticeable flicker but it gave him a migraine when he spent too long beneath it. And the neighbours, they were probably the most intolerable part of the whole thing. On one side, a Twi'lek prostitute that worked from home and specialised in extreme bondage. At least, that was what Atton had gathered from sleepless nights listening through the papery walls. On the other a Rodian that was addicted to glitter and would constantly wake Atton up by trying to beat down his door to warn him that the moon was about to collide with Nal Hutta, so addled was his mind by spice. When he thought about it, there really wasn't anything pleasant about it at all. But it seemed heavenly in comparison to his current situation.

It wasn't really about the quality of the mattress or the cleanliness of the walls or the fact that his feet didn't stick to the floor. It had almost everything to do with his new neighbours. Meetra Surik and Darth fragging Traya. One had killed Rhyssa Sularen, the only woman he'd ever been in love with and he'd been forced to listen to her last frightened screams over his comlink. The other had backed him into a corner and made him kill...He stopped. He couldn't even think about it. Couldn't even think about her face or her name. At least Traya, or Kae, or Kreia, or whatever the heartless old witch was calling herself these days had the decency to go somewhere else at night. There was another small room that had nothing in it, and she meditated there instead of sleeping. But not Meetra. No, Meetra was there, laying only a few feet away from him and the worst thing, perhaps, was lying there listening to her breathe.

Meetra was a strange woman – one of the stranger he'd met. He had thought for so long that he knew everything about her. He'd met her once and she'd frightened the hell out of him, but she seemed more frightened of him these days. She was quiet, and startled easily and seemed almost overwhelmed with gratitude any time anyone extended her even the smallest of courtesies. It was a far cry from the monster he'd built her up to be in his head. He'd had lots of rumours to build this evil image from. Rumours of her sleeping with dozens of soldiers, rumours of her just outright killing people that did not agree with her, rumours about how much the other Revanchist hated her. Even one story he'd been told more than once about her convincing a soldier to take a stroll in the airlock without suiting up and her gleefully watching him die, nose pressed against the glass. Nothing about this woman lying only a few feet away suggested that any of that was true and that was confusing to him. There was one time, when he'd seen her. She'd choked Rhyssa and whispered something to her after. It was only a week before Rhyssa died and he never managed to needle out of her what Surik said. It seemed less like she didn't want him to know, and more like she was so traumatised that she simply couldn't repeat it. He'd looked into Surik's eyes that day and they had been so very different. They were dark grey, closer to black and they had no shine, no life in them. But her eyes were blue now. Not a particularly inspiring shade of blue, but blue all the same and perfectly human. And while she'd seemed tall and muscular, all dressed up, in reality she was short and kind of plump. There was nothing threatening about her. And he didn't understand how she could be the same person.

The reason why Atton killed Jedi was complicated. But he didn't think he ever could have had the fuel to feed that kind of anger and hate if it hadn't been for Meetra Surik. So in his mind, it was her fault, and he'd blamed her for years. The truth was, the trip to Peragus happened because his judgement was clouded by spice. And when Meetra finally showed up, he was absolutely starving and so tired that his judgement was impaired further. And if any other Jedi had walked through that door, by the next time he'd had something to eat and a nap, he would have changed his mind. He would have changed his mind for no other reason besides the fact that he couldn't stand to think about the face and the name and the dimpled cheeks of the last Jedi he had killed. He couldn't stand the sting of shame that she, of all people, had died by his hand. But the reason he had to kill Meetra Surik had nothing to do with the fact that she was a Jedi. It wasn't about brutality or getting a fix or irrational anger. It was because she had hurt him, more than anyone had ever hurt him. It was about revenge.

He looked at Meetra again and the rise and fall of her chest had changed. He wondered if she had possibly, finally fallen asleep. He watched, patiently, and then a feeling came over him, a feeling that had been a stranger so long he could barely remember its name. As quietly and carefully as he could, he pulled himself down onto the floor and moved towards her on his knees. He perched over her, mindful not to touch her and just watched. He told himself he was trying to gather information. It wasn't going to be easy to kill her with Kreia around, and he would need to know Surik inside out to get away with it. But if he questioned himself a little harder, he knew there really wasn't anything to gain by doing this.

She kept doing nice things and it irritated him. Even on Peragus, she had brought him food and water back from the lower levels. She hadn't even said anything, just left them at the console then trundled off to do something else dangerous like it was no big deal. He hadn't mentioned just how hungry or thirsty he was, so she must have thought about it on her own and cared. Well, cared enough to do something about it, anyway. And just today she'd admonished Kreia for being rude to him. In addition, it had been the most well thought out, even-headed, kindly worded dressing down he'd ever heard; the kind that Kreia could not outright object to and only made the corners of her mouth twitch in annoyance. He hated Kreia just as much and sometimes more than Surik, so that gained her a few points. Even if he didn't need some pip-squeak, washed-up, girlfriend-killing ex-Jedi standing up for him.

Atton closed his eyes in frustration. Meetra Surik was a problem. He'd prefer rooming with the damn glitter-addict Rodian.

He sighed and barely had a moment to note his error because suddenly her elbow slammed painfully into his jaw, and in a moment so brief it could barely be measured, she had him pinned on the floor, her forearm pressed into his neck and her face only inches from his.

"What were you doing?" she hissed. Atton just blinked at her. His jaw stung like a schutta and he still couldn't quite figure out how she'd done that so quickly. "Well?" she demanded. When he didn't reply, she narrowed her eyes. "Listen to me, Atton Rand. You even think about crossing me and I'll cut your equipment off and make you a pretty little hat to wear, do you hear me? I am not afraid of you."

Atton wasn't sure how he knew, but she was bluffing. More than bluffing, she was terrified of him. He waited for a moment, then swiftly kneed her in the spine and when her shoulders moved back in pain, he used the opportunity to push her off. A little voice in his head noted that he didn't use nearly as much force as he could have, and in fact, had moved her rather gently, all things considered.

"I wasn't doing anything," defended Atton, glaring at her.

She was panting, clearly unsettled, but she glared back. Before the argument had a chance to get started, she got up and walked over to the pitiful dresser on the far side of the room. She dressed with whatever she could find, holstered a blaster and threw the rucksack she never parted with over her shoulder.

"Where are you going?" asked Atton.

"For a walk," she replied. Curt. Defensive.

Atton did not have a response, so he just crawled back into bed and turned on the holovision as the door slid closed behind her. Even late night infomercials were better company than Meetra fragging Surik.

_Schutta._

_Scoundrel._

Outside, Meetra walked with a brisk pace. She realised before she'd even gone ten metres that she looked stupid. She'd pulled leggings on under her nightgown and thrown a jacket over the top. She didn't even put shoes on. She felt like an idiot but she didn't want to go back. She walked, and walked. She hated Citadel Station. She wanted to be outside, wanted to breathe fresh air, wanted to lay in the grass. She was nothing but frustrated. She hated the Force, and she hated Kreia and she didn't hate Atton at all and she felt like that should all be the other way around. She decided then that she was leaving. She'd had enough. Alek had told her to leave and never come back, and even though she still didn't know why, she figured he was right. Being back was horrible, and she hated it. Everyone said 'exile' like it was a bad thing but she longed for it. Her mind was so busy, turning over, trying to figure out how to get off this cursed station without anyone knowing that she didn't hear someone call her name. Suddenly a hand grabbed her elbow, and she whipped around, livid.

"What the hell are you doing?" she demanded, voice edged in steel, but surprised to see that the hand belonged to a very young Twi'lek girl, a lovely shade of blue, with big kind eyes. Regardless, her hand instinctively hovered at the blaster by her side.

"Are you Meetra Surik?" she asked, raising her eyebrows hopefully. Meetra looked down and saw the girl had a package wedged under her arm, and a datapad in the other. A datapad displaying a picture of Meetra and Alek, fourteen and nineteen. The girl saw Meetra's suspicious look and turned the datapad down.

"Who wants to know?" sneered Meetra. Her nose crinkled.

"I'm, uh, not supposed to tell you," offered the Twi'lek. Meetra did not appreciate this answer.

"That's really not going to work for me," she threatened, hand closing over the grip of her blaster.

"Look, my name's not important, okay? I'm a friend of a friend, and that's all you need to know...you know?"


	39. The package

**Chapter Thirty ****Nine**

**_Every gift from a friend is a wish for your happiness._**

Mission checked her watch and impatiently glanced left and right down the long grey halls of Citadel Station. Nothing. A quarter past one in the morning, and still nothing. She flicked her eyes up and peered through a grimy window. She saw Zaalbar watching her protectively from the shadowed corner of a cantina. They had been waiting for hours, exactly where Revan told them, but it didn't seem like this mysterious former Jedi was ever going to show. She pulled out the package and ran her fingers over the flimsiplast wrapping. It was well-worn, having been originally wrapped almost five years ago now, and there were tiny holes in places where the material had gotten wet and melted. The box beneath was made of thick durasheet, and Mission had no idea what it contained. Revan had assured her it was nothing dangerous, nothing that would raise any concern at customs, but it was incredibly important that it be delivered to its recipient unopened.

She pulled out her datapad and flicked to the picture Revan had provided. It was an old photo – maybe thirteen or so years old, by now. The girl in it was very young, only fourteen just as Mission had been when she met Revan. She was beaming, wearing an impossibly happy smile and standing next to a man that Mission knew would one day be Darth Malak. He looked so different to the steely-jawed horror she'd come face to face with at Revan's side. There were no tattoos or prosthetics, just a handsome young man with a full face and a dark head of hair. And as though to form some odd comparison, in the photo he was nineteen, the same age Mission was now. It seemed such a strange relic. She wondered how accurate this photo could possibly still be, and thinking about the changes the years had rendered to Malak, she half expected that when this Jedi finally showed, she would be just as different – maybe with a robotic hand or false eye or something equally jarring.

Really, this whole thing seemed like a waste of time and she was only doing it as a favour to Revan. She'd wanted so many times over the years to open this stupid package, especially when Revan had requested that she never disclose its existence to Bastila. She wondered if maybe it was filled with love letters or something equally incriminating, and she was just beginning to wonder if it would be wrong to open it if this ex-Jedi never showed up, when that's exactly what the ex-Jedi did.

"Hey!" called out Mission. She'd spotted the woman only just in time, as she was walking past rather briskly. She'd been spotting women that looked similar to the girl in the photo all day, but always hesitated, unsure. But the second she saw this woman, Mission knew instinctively she was the right one. The streets weren't exactly quiet, and the woman didn't turn around, "Meetra Surik!"

Mission took to her feet and caught up with the woman, still trying to confirm by glancing back and forth between her frowning, suspicious face and the datapad in her hand. She placed a hand on the woman's elbow to slow her and the woman whipped around, her face emblazoned with a mixture of anger and surprise.

"What the hell are you doing?" she demanded, hand hovering over the blaster holstered at her side.

"Are you Meetra Surik?" asked Mission, eyes wide. The woman broke Mission's gaze to look down at the datapad and Mission turned it face down, made uncomfortable by the photo of Meetra Surik and Malak it was displaying.

"Who wants to know?" asked Meetra, a sneer forming in the bridge of her nose and around the corners of her mouth.

"I'm not supposed to tell you," replied Mission, casually, trying to glance over at Zaalbar inconspicuously for reassurance. Revan had emphasised to Mission that he wasn't sure how well Meetra would take to being tracked down by someone associated with him, and had been very clear that Mission should be extra cautious around her.

"That's really not going to work for me," replied the woman.

"Look, my name's not important, okay? I'm a friend of a friend, and that's all you need to know, you know?"

"No, I don't know." There was a terse moment, as Meetra's hand stopped hovering, and closed still around the grip of her blaster. She wasn't pointing it at Mission, but if she was anything like Revan, Mission knew that if the situation turned she'd have mere milliseconds to get out of the way. "Explain yourself."

Mission clucked her tongue in frustration. It had been a long, boring day and she'd been waiting for this meeting for years. When Revan had disappeared, what she'd wanted more than anything was to open this cursed package but she'd exercised restraint, and it was a little childish, but she was annoyed that this Meetra Surik wasn't being more appreciative of all the effort she'd gone to. She knew she shouldn't, but she couldn't help her eyes wandering back to Zaalbar, who was as protective of his tiny Twi'lek companion as ever and watching intently, ready to pounce if the need arose.

"What do you keep looking at?" demanded Meetra, a strict frown darkening her face.

"Nothing, sheesh," deflected Mission and Meetra responded to the lie by drawing the blaster and pressing it gently against Mission's stomach, "Hey, you don't want to do that. I got friends, you know? Friends that wouldn't appreciate that."

"Well I don't appreciate you calling my name out on the street like we know each other. I don't have friends, because I don't need them, _you know_?" said Meetra, mocking Mission's tone, and pressing the blaster a little harder, "Now, tell me who the hell you are."

Mission closed her eyes briefly, hoping Zaalbar had noticed and was on the way to give this Meetra Surik a furry right hook. She wasn't unarmed herself, but she wasn't sure she'd have time to do anything about it before getting a blaster bolt in her pancreas.

"Okay, look, do you want to put that thing down? Sheesh," said Mission, with a nervous purse of her lips, "I just have a package for you, that's all," she explained, giving a small nod down and to the left, to the bundle tucked under her arm.

Meetra did not look down, clearly expecting some kind of trick. She gave the barrel of the blaster a little push and raised an eyebrow.

"What's in it?

"I don't know! Re -" Mission stopped and changed gears promptly, to recover from her verbal slip, "Really, I don't. The guy who gave it to me just said it was for you."

Meetra seemed partially pacified by this, and she took a step back, not lowering her blaster but providing a little distance between it and Mission's abdomen.

"Open it," demanded Meetra, giving the blaster a threatening shake, "Go on."

"Look, he made it pretty clear that it was for your eyes only, you know?"

"That's exactly why you're going to open it," said Meetra and there was something bright but sarcastic in her voice.

Mission chewed on the inside of her lip for a second, then nodded. Her hands moved awkwardly, then she held the datapad out with an uncomfortable smile.

"Can you hold this?" she asked, giving a friendly head tilt. Meetra did not reply, but took the datapad, and Mission was thankful. She peeled away layers of yellowed plastoid tape and ripped open the flimsiplast. She wedged the crumpled material under her arm and pulled out a small pocket knife to slit open the durasheet. She was excited, despite the circumstances. She had expected the ex-Jedi to just take the box and leave and to never find out what it held, and though she wasn't especially appreciative of the way Meetra Surik was treating her, she was incredibly eager to know what was inside. She pulled it open and inside lay some kind of orange crystal and a book – _Trampeta's Star Guide_. How disappointing.

"I can't believe I've been carrying this thing around for three years and that's all it was," she said, without thinking.

Meetra said nothing. She tossed the datapad inside the box and took the book. She flipped through it then stopped, but from her angle, Mission couldn't see what was inside. She watched Meetra's eyes scan the page back and forth, and jumped when Zaalbar's big, heavy paw settled on her shoulder. Meetra's attention was drawn away from the book and she re-cocked her blaster.

"Who is this?" demanded Meetra.

"Is the Jedi being troublesome, Mission?" asked Zaalbar.

"Hey!" interjected Meetra, "What's he saying? I don't speak carpet."

"Please say yes," growled Zaalbar, and Mission felt a little more confident.

"He's one of those friends that I have and you don't, so maybe watch your mouth, yeah?" said Mission and Meetra frowned.

"Did Revan really use the words 'one of my oldest friends'?" asked Zalbaar, his head turning to Mission and Mission scoffed.

"Yeah, but, he said the same thing about metal mouth, remember?" murmured Mission, assuming Meetra was completely oblivious. To the surprise of both Mission and Zaalbar, Meetra suddenly holstered her blaster and slid the book in the rough, leather bag slung over her shoulder.

"Give me a look at this," she said, taking the crystal. It was a beautiful, vivid orange and glowed when Meetra touched it. A strange look passed over Meetra's face. Her spare hand touched her forehead and she made a tiny whimper. A moment later, her knees buckled and Zaalbar moved to catch her just in time. He held her under her arms and Meetra was limp for a moment, before her head shook and she regained her footing. She pushed Zaalbar away with a hiss of disapproval.

"Paws in your pockets, Wookiee," she said, clearly trying to sound confident but her voice quavered. She looked at Mission with confusion. "What's your name?"

Mission almost considered offering it, because Meetra's voice held a soft, affectionate quality this time that sharply contrasted with her early hostility. Mission opened and closed her mouth but then Meetra shook her head.

"Well. Thanks. Anyway. I...I need to go," she said, her tone lifting at the end as though she was asking permission, and then she just stumbled away, crystal still clenched tight in her palm. Mission and Zaalbar stared after this strange woman, hair askew, barefoot and looking like she had dressed in the dark. They looked at each other.

"That was weird, right?" asked Mission, and Zaalbar nodded.

"Are you sure she was the right one?"

"Pretty sure," shrugged Mission, "You know, Big Z, I feel like a jerk giving some random woman a gift from Revan when Bastila's been raising Vaner alone for three years, you know?"

"I understand. A long time has passed since we last saw her."

"I feel like a jerk about that, too. Maybe we should check in on her on the way back to Corellia. I mean, Coruscant's practically on the way, anyway."

Zaalbar nodded, again.

"You know, I just spent twelve hours on my tush. I need to stretch my legs. Let's find a pazaak den before we go."

"Doesn't playing pazaak require sitting, also?"

"Yeah, well. Sheesh, Big Z," said Mission, throwing a hand up then giving him a soft punch with it. A shadow passed Mission's face, and she looked down. "Zaalbar. Do you think he's...you know..."

"I hope not."

Mission nodded, but her expression remained glum.

"Pazaak sounds good," amended Zaalbar and Mission looked up. Slowly she smiled, and then grinned.

"Let's go, Big Z."


	40. I'm so glad you're here

**Chapter Forty**

_**It was not the thorn bending to the honeysuckles, but the honeysuckles embracing the thorn.**_

Atton awoke to the shrill voice of a Galactic News broadcaster squealing in his ear about the devastation rippling through the galaxy following the destruction of the Peragus II Mining Colony. He screwed his face up and squashed it into his pillow, but the racket proved to be more irritation than the pillow could absorb, so he sat up and groped around for the remote to shut off the holovision. In the ensuing quiet, he noticed that Meetra hadn't returned after storming off last night. He checked the time and realised it was already late morning. Perhaps she had, indeed, come back and already set out for the day with Kreia. Good, he decided.

His stomach turned with hunger and he sighed in frustration. He'd slept badly, and was in a distinctly bad mood. There was nothing to eat in this barren apartment and he felt sticky and uncomfortable, so he got up and sauntered into the refresher to take a shower. While he waited for the water to run hot, he stripped off his filthy clothes, the same he'd been stuck in for weeks. Everything he owned was still back on Nar Shaddaa. He'd sneaked a call to his landlord a few days ago and been informed if he was late on his rent another week, all his belongings would be turfed out into the street and his apartment leased to a new tenant. He tried not to think about that, because it didn't seem like there would be any way off Citadel Station any time soon and he was flat broke. He'd drained his meagre savings buttering up those two Twi'lek girls before he left and every time one of the myriad of tasks Meetra signed them up for actually paid, she seemed to immediately gravitate towards some whelp that, apparently, needed the credits more than they did. Meetra Surik. Never failing to ruin Atton Rand's life.

Atton glowered at himself in the mirror until it was too clouded with steam to see anything, then relented and stepped under the stream. At first he focused solely on washing, but it wasn't long before his hands wandered towards his favoured method of pressure release. He was more than bothered to find he couldn't find anything to think about besides Meetra and even when he tried to concentrate on something specific, he just kept coming back to her. In particular, Peragus, watching her over the security cameras, stretching, arms behind her back, chest sticking out. Tiny little bounces, barely jumping on the spot, that made her breasts jiggle in a motion that seemed to have burned itself all over the inside of his eyelids. He felt disgusted by himself, and it had little to do with objectifying her. He gave his forehead a dull thump against the tile, and gave up, resigned to dissatisfaction.

After a few minutes of staring at the wall in self-pity, he shut off the water and stepped out, reaching for a towel that wasn't soft but served its purpose adequately. He wiped the steam from the mirror and looked at himself again. The older he got, the more he looked like his father, and between that and calling himself 'Atton', he was beginning to make for an uncomfortably accurate imitation of the man. Except, he supposed, the original Atton had been a gentleman, responsible and devoted and this Atton was really just Jaq and Jaq was...well, none of those things. He pushed back the stray flop of hair that always insisted on obscuring his vision, and even though it was wet, it stubbornly tumbled back down to its rightful place. He rolled his eyes and left the refresher, towel wrapped around his waist. He stepped outside the door and gave a lazy yawn that bared his teeth and made a tired howl.

"That's cute. You yawn like a cranky little Wookiee," came Meetra's voice suddenly and it startled him so much, he felt a small sharp pain in his chest. He turned his head and saw Meetra sitting cross-legged atop the dresser. She looked different, but he couldn't quite figure out why. She held between both her hands what looked like a half-eaten bantha burger and she seemed positively chirpy. She mimicked his yawn with a shake of her head, teeth and gums gnashing, then smiled at him. He grimaced.

"You're a creep, you know that?" he hissed, with narrowed eyes and she smiled wider.

"I got you something," she said, brightly, ignoring his distaste. She gave a nod towards his bed and there was a bundle of neatly folded, new clothes.

"What the hell is that?" he asked, still frowning. He began to feel uncomfortably aware of how little he was wearing, but Meetra seemed oblivious as she took a generous bite of her brunch, then brandished what remained of it at him, bright-orange-cheese-coated wrapper flapping joyfully.

"I love cheese. Isn't food _amazing_?" she gushed, mouth still full but obscured by a self-conscious hand.

"Are you jacked up on spice or something, Surik?"

"No. No no no," she muttered, shaking her head, then swallowing and smiling again.

Atton stared at her for a moment, distracted by rosy lips and eyes that bore a vitality he hadn't seen in them before. He picked up the shirt sitting on top of the pile and let it hang from his fingers. He hated to admit it, but it was something he'd wear. What she'd bought didn't seem that far removed from his usual dress, only newer and considerably cleaner.

"I figured you wouldn't appreciate me taking your measurements while you slept, so I had to guess your size."

"Why would you buy me clothes?" he demanded, giving her a defensive frown.

"Just for when you finally feel like washing what you've been wearing since I met you two weeks ago. I mean, if you want to sit around butt naked in a public laundromat, be my guest, but..." she trailed off and gave a shrug that looked almost cheeky.

"I'm not fifteen, Surik, and you're not my mother. I don't need you to buy clothes for me."

"Are you grumpy because you're hungry? Because I got you breakfast, too," she said, giving him an exaggerated grin and picking up the paper bag sitting next to her and giving it a shake.

"I am not grumpy," huffed Atton, though she was right on both accounts.

"You totally are. Come eat with me," she said, patting the dresser.

He frowned and crossed his arms.

"I'm kind of...naked, here, Surik."

"Well, you know. No one's stopping you from getting dressed."

Atton opened and closed his mouth, then realised she had a point and wondered why he was even still standing there talking to her. He threw his hands up with an eye roll and went back into the refresher to get dressed. When he came back out, Meetra gave an annoyed cry.

"Seriously? I bought you clothes!"

"I don't want them," he said, though he felt sticky and dirty again. He briefly wished he didn't feel the need to be so ornery and stubborn with her. Regardless, he came over and, levering himself up with his hands, sat beside her on the dresser.

"At least tell me you hide clean underwear somewhere, man," she said, casually, passing him a plastic cup filled with something sticky and carbonated.

"Can you not talk about my underwear, please?" he asked as he punctured the lid with the accompanying straw. It made an angry squeak that was somehow pleasing.

"Oh, my apologies," she said, bright and sarcastic, "You bring it up so often, I was beginning to think it was your favourite topic of conversation."

"Yours, maybe, sweetheart. I'll pay that," he offered, and hated himself as soon as he said it. Flirting with her barely required any effort at all, and the flippant, unthinking way he so often did bothered him. Though it was an excellent way to irritate her, he knew it was mostly because he was attracted to her. He wished he found her more despicable and ugly because it would make it a lot easier to hate her, and he so badly wanted to hate her. He opened the bag and began to sort through its contents – typical greasy fast food fare but it seemed more than appealing at the moment. Meetra rolled her eyes, eager to let that particular subject drop, and Atton was thankful.

"Hey, I'm really sorry about giving you a jawful of my elbow last night."

"Whatever, I don't care," dismissed Atton, tearing the bag open and dumping the hubba chips it had held across the paper.

"Anyway, I'm still sorry. I'm not really used to being around people, and...you frightened me," she said and there was an unpleasant tone in her voice, as though she was loathed to admit such a thing.

"Yeah, well. Aren't you meant to be a Jedi, or something? Pretty sure I'm no match for you," deflected Atton. He was lying, but the less she knew about his capabilities, the better.

"Firstly," she started, then crammed what was left in her hand in her mouth, holding up a finger to stop Atton from talking until she had swallowed. "Stop saying I'm a Jedi. Why are you so fixated on that?"

Atton shrugged, trying to look casual, and Meetra just shook her head in confusion.

"I was never even knighted, so I'm no more a Jedi than the failed plebs they sent here before Malak bombed the hell out of it. Secondly, though last night was hardly a good example, I..." she trailed off, then sighed. She tossed a sideways glance at Atton, but wasn't even sure he was listening, because he had ripped off the top of the burger she'd brought him and was peeling out the pickles with a look of revulsion.

"Yes?" said Atton, simply, after more than a moment of silence had passed and for a reason that was beyond her, Meetra felt embarrassed for waiting.

"I trust you," she said, punctuating her sentence with an uncomfortable fidget. "I don't think you're nearly as much of an idiot as Kreia makes out, and even though you let your silly blaster jam far too often because you don't clean it, when push comes to shove, I'd rather fight with you than against you. So it's not that I don't think you're capable, because I'm pretty sure you could take me down if you wanted to. But I trust you, so..."

Meetra shrugged. She seemed ridiculously ill at ease and Atton felt much the same, but he was determined to be less obvious about it than she was. He took a bite that was slightly more than he could comfortably chew and the parallel annoyed him.

"Is there a third thing or was that it?" he asked, making no attempt at hiding how full his mouth still was, and feeling a small amount of glee at the disgusted crinkle in Meetra's nose.

"There was one more thing. Unless you want me to stop grovelling," she offered, with raised eyebrows and he gave her a head tilt.

"No, please," he said, twirling his hand around then swallowing hard, "Do continue. I love it when women grovel," he added with a knavish smirk and she felt oddly relieved to see it.

"I bet you do," she said, with a disingenuous frown, then looked at her lap. "The last thing was just that. Just that I...I feel like I should tell you that I'm glad you're here."

Meetra stopped and hoped Atton would give her some sort of response, because she was feeling more awkward by the second but he just kept shovelling hubba chips in his mouth, occasionally stopping to lick the salt from his fingers.

"Because," she started again, "I know you've probably got...some whole life somewhere that I'm keeping you from, and I'm sorry that you got all tangled up in this, and when we get it all sorted, I'll understand if you want to leave. I mean, I'm sure you weren't just hanging around on Peragus waiting for me to show up but...for now, I do actually appreciate your company. Believe it or not, I don't really care for Kreia and...It's nice to have someone to talk to that doesn't want credits or a favour or anything from me. So...thanks."

"Was that all?"

"Yeah," said Meetra, with a pathetic expression, clearly disappointed with Atton's lack of response.

"I think that's the most you've said since we met," replied Atton, voice breezy. He took a long sip through his straw, feeling Meetra's expectant eyes burn the side of his face. "This is pretty good. The food, you know."

Meetra nodded and looked away.

"Thanks," he said and Meetra shrugged.

"No problem."

Atton gave a sly smile meant only for himself, then. He could tell he'd hurt her feelings, and something about that was reassuring. That she had feelings to hurt, and was just sitting there like a lemon, feeling embarrassed, like a normal person would, and not trying to Force-choke him or make him wail. Of course, that was just another thing in an already lengthy list that was making it hard to hate her, but he was feeling generous having eaten.

"I meant for the other stuff, too," he offered, turning to face her.

Her chin dipped, weighed down by a rosy-lipped smile and internally Atton kicked himself for being enamoured by it. She looked up, then, and placed a bare index finger on his chin and his mind reeled from the memory. But her smile wasn't manic, wasn't unsettling, but was easy and bright and full of hope and her touch was affectionate rather than dominating and instead of grabbing his chin like he was a child, after a second she took her hand back.

"I want you to trust me. So if I do something that bothers you, tell me," she said, voice quiet and serious, and Atton, who had never thought of her as anything but a liar, saw more than a mote of honesty in her eyes.

"You're the boss, Surik," he said, casually and turned his attention back to his food.

"You know, I don't think you've said my name once," she mused, snapping like a rubber band back to joviality.

"I just did," argued Atton. Meetra leaned across him to steal a hubba chip and there was a soft moment where he tried to slap her hand away but she was too quick, rewarding herself with a smug grin.

"I don't really like Surik. Would you mind just calling me Meetra?"

Atton grimaced. He did mind. He minded very much. To call her by her first name was far too personal and he felt it would do little to arrest the way she was squirming past his veneer and chipping away his years-old grudge.

"Maybe one day, princess," he offered and Meetra rolled her eyes.

"You're infuriating," she said and slipped off the dresser. He looked at her and noticed again that she seemed different. It was something in her face, maybe, or perhaps just that she seemed to have finally brushed her hair. "I'm going to see the Ithorians," she announced, hands on her hips, "You coming?"

"Are you requesting my company or demanding it?"

"You can hang around and watch soaps all day if you want. The Spy and the Imperial starts in an hour, I believe," she said.

"When you put it that way," he said with a sour look. Then he noticed a conspicuous absence, "Where's the decrepit scowl?"

Meetra opened her mouth in confusion, then closed it.

"I haven't seen Kreia all morning."

"Maybe she died of old age," muttered Atton. Meetra frowned to stifle a laugh, then shook her head.

"Don't be cruel, Atton."

He stared at her face for a moment, as she waited for a response. He exhaled hard, and glanced up towards the ceiling.

"Wouldn't dream of it," he sighed, feeling temporarily defeated.


	41. That's all it took

**Chapter ****Forty-One**

**_No more by sin or sorrow press'd, but hushed in quiet sleep._**

Delphine sat at the kitchen counter, a half-drunk cup of tea long abandoned and gone cold before her. She thought the words over once more but they still didn't make any sense. She raised her head from where it rested in the palm of her hand for a moment but her surroundings seemed foreign. She had lived in this same home since Edus was three. He was thirty-one now, and after all this time, this apartment should have been familiar, but it was empty and cold and she lived here alone.

She had for a long time, of course. Only a scant few years after the last of her three children had moved out did Atton die. She could still barely control her anger over that. It was a diplomatic envoy en route to Coruscant. The Mandalorian _Kyramud_ that shot it down should never have fired in the first place. It had no weapons, no defences to match the scale of the attack. She bit down hard and moved her second hand to help hold her heavy, pain-mired head. It had never been fair, but regardless of what was justified and what wasn't, Atton had died, and a significant portion of her had died with him. Throughout the whole ordeal, her eldest son Edus had been an anchor, the only thing that stopped her useless heart washing out to sea and being lost forever.

And her daughter Delta had come as well. Her presence was not as comforting, however, because it was always a tricky thing with Delta. She was a beautiful, kind, loving young woman, but a Jedi as well and having seen her family only a small handful of times since she was a young child meant that she was awkward and stiff around them. Atton was a Minister of the House of Thul, and the Thuls had long been friends with the Order, and they'd been kind enough since taking Delta at age eight to occasionally allow her to return to Alderaan. Only for short stints and almost always with her Master, but still. Delphine's mind flashed back to the disagreement between Delta and Edus at the funeral. Delta had not followed the Jedi Knight Revan into war, and her opinion on the matter still had not budged an inch even in the light of her father's death at the hands of the Mandalorians. Even though Delta was proven right in her convictions eventually, at the time Edus was disgusted by this, and the only thing that stopped the occasion from turning into a screaming match was the shame they both felt when Delphine began to cry.

But Atton's death was not the source of her current anguish.

No, the perpetrator here was Jaq.

Jaq. Her little baby boy and all the horror he had wrought.

It was an argument between Jaq and Atton that had driven him away. They were too alike – too hot headed, too stubborn, too easily offended. Though Atton had far better self-control, honed by age, Jaq had been so young back then, barely eighteen. She understood, in a lot of ways, why they clashed and why Jaq had left. He'd taken it extremely hard when Delta was taken. She had idolised him and he had idolised the Jedi. When they were little, she would sit and listen to all his stories and his reams of memorised information about them as if it was the most exciting thing she'd ever heard, just because it was him telling her. And then one day she was gone, and each time he saw her after that, each time so far between they could barely recognise one another, she knew more than he did and he felt foolish and rejected in comparison. She felt shy around him, too, but he took it for disdain and Delphine saw the way it hurt him.

Delphine pressed her nails deep into her palms, and dug the curve where hand joined wrist against her eyesockets.

Jaq always found school difficult. He was in trouble almost every day, for being late, for sleeping during class, for playing truant, for instigating silly scuffles. He was intelligent but couldn't focus and found the work increasingly difficult through the years. Delphine knew all along that Jaq had been humiliated by this but could never find a way to encourage him without making him defensive. Edus was naturally better at so many things, and Atton and Delphine didn't judge but Jaq could not shake the perception that they were constantly comparing the two, pitting them against each other. He seemed to have found a talent, finally, as a pilot and after dropping out of school on a whim, he got his licence in only two short years. But it had finally been enough for Jaq's fragile ego when he had mistaken Atton's urging – that just working trade routes is no life for anyone if it can be avoided – as an accusation that he wasn't good enough to be the son of Atton and Delphine Randolph. And then he left. He didn't say anything. There was no announcement, no note, no explanation, just a vanishing act, and he broke Delphine's heart and Atton's, too, that day.

They had no idea where he'd gone or what he was doing until six months later when Vidown Thul casually mentioned during a business dinner to Atton that Jaq had applied for a position as second captain on his nephew Alsten's yacht. Vidown made sure Jaq got the job, but barely a year later he just disappeared again. Delphine had made every effort to contact him when Atton died not long after, but she had no idea if he ever got any of her holo messages, for he never replied and he did not show at the funeral.

It was hard to swallow all these years later when Vidown had brought news again, this time to tell her he'd received intel that Atton Randolph's son had joined the Sith. She did not believe it, at first, and could not begin to understand what could have driven him to such a thing. But contacting him failed again and she turned to the only person she thought could help.

Delta.

Delphine's resolve failed then, and she let her face droop to the table and began to cry. Her handsome son and her beautiful daughter. Her mind splayed, and though she tried to stop it, it urged her to ponder how he'd done it. What he'd said to her. What he possibly could have thought while doing it. Every inch of her being raged at her, howling that it was her fault. How could it be anybody's fault but hers? She raised that man, that murderer, her poor lost son, and she begged that woman, that saint, that defender, her precious daughter, to save him. Her tears were relentless and made a blinding throb in her temples. How long she had sat at that table, she did not know. She'd received the call...hours. Hours ago. And she'd made herself a cup of tea and sat down and just stared at the wall. Too shocked to do anything.

She prayed, then. She prayed for anyone to listen, for anyone to help her out of the deep ocean of despair she was drowning in. She thought of Delta's face, practically a mirror of her own. She tried to imagine Jaq's face, how he might have grown since she'd last seen him. Without premeditation her hand whipped out in rage and the cup of tea skittered across the table and smashed on the floor. Delphine bit down on her fist to stop herself from screaming. She slid off the chair, hands and knees on the cold tile and pressed her forehead against the ground, body wracked with useless sobs.

Jaq. She said his name, again and again.

Jaq.

She asked him how he could.

How?

How?

How?

My babies.

_No._

She pleaded for Atton. She pleaded for him to come back to her, to make sense of all of this, but her pain was hers to bear alone. She cried until she literally could no longer. She cried until she was dehydrated and exhausted and her voice had given out. Then she had a thought. A peaceful thought that wrapped around her and was suffocating in its comfort. It was a silent, intimate battle she had fought since Atton died, but the path was long and lonely and she had grown too weary to continue. She didn't have an ounce of strength left to fight with. She'd always wanted to be here if Jaq came home. Edus and Delta hadn't needed her in years, so after Atton died, it was her poor, lost little boy who she fought for. She'd wanted to be there, to hold him and tell him that she had always loved him and he had always been good enough. She wanted to say it again and again until he was convinced. But there, on the kitchen floor, face pressed into the tile, she realised he was never coming home and whoever occupied that body that had grown inside of hers was not her little baby boy. Her little baby boy was gone.

She stood, and Edus and Jaq sat at the kitchen counter arguing over the last pancake that Celes, their exceedingly strict but surprisingly humorous housekeeper, had made. She walked into the living room, and Delta sat in Jaq's lap as he read to her from _Hesperus and the Evening Star_, and when she turned her head, Atton was teaching Jaq and Edus to play that stupid card game they'd always been so fond of.

In the hall, Edus ran past her, almost knocking her over, eager to get to the door because Atton had just come home from another long business trip. And she climbed the stairs and watched Delta take her first steps on the landing, tiny chubby fingers clinging to Atton's big, strong hands.

She passed the room that had been Jaq's and he was blushing, having been caught sneaking his first girlfriend up to his room, and despite breaking their rules, there was Atton, struggling to stay mad because he was so impressed his boy had snared such a looker, all stunning green eyes and silky blonde hair.

She passed the room that had been Edus' and he was dressing for his graduation and he was so nervous and she felt a jab of shame as she watched herself not comfort him but complain that his hair was too messy, pushing back the floppy forelock that maddeningly refused to behave, just as it did for Atton, and just the same for Jaq.

She passed the room that had been Delta's, and Delphine was sitting on the bed, crying because the Order had taken her little girl, and Jaq's head was in her lap, just as miserable.

She walked into her own room, and just watched, hopeless, as she and Atton sat in bed, both reading.

Delphine fiddled at her wrist, and pulled off her expensive watch and let it fall to the ground.

She watched Atton's pained howl as Delta made an accidental but unfortunately placed kick after she'd climbed into their bed during a thunderstorm.

Her rings, the charm bracelet she'd had since she was a little girl, her earrings, she took it all off and it dropped where she stood.

She watched Jaq and Edus bring her breakfast in bed on her birthday. They were twelve and sixteen, she was forty five. Jaq was inconsiderate enough to point out a silvery white hair and Atton cooed compliments to sooth her ego.

She kicked off her shoes.

She watched all five of them, sitting in that bed, holding one another the night Atton's father died.

She sat at her vanity, a beautiful wooden thing with gold accents, once her mother's, and with trembling hands removed the last wretched scraps of her spoiled make up.

She watched Atton move above her, kissing her neck, the night Delta was conceived. She heard herself silently pray for a little girl, but adding an addendum, that regardless of whether she fell pregnant with a girl or boy or even at all, she was so thankful for her family, so madly in love with her three perfect gentlemen.

She let her hair out, and brushed it. She tried not to look at how littered with grey it was.

She stood, and made the descent back down the stairs, out the front door.

At the front door, she licked her finger and rubbed it on Edus' cheek before he left for school, and Jaq laughed as Edus whined, embarrassed.

She stood in the lift, her pathetic reflection in the polished durasteel staring right back at her. She listened to each small beep as it climbed higher and higher.

Jaq stood in the corner of the lift and his tiny, sticky hands searched through bags of groceries for something sweet to eat, too eager to wait for them to get home.

Her face was blank and so was her mind, as if everything had just stopped.

In the opposite corner, she held Delta, still too small to walk, and Edus had a handful of her skirt, barely able to stay awake. Jaq sat on Atton's shoulders, his chin buried in messy brown hair, just as tired as Edus. Where did they go that day? It was a holiday, maybe a fare. Delphine couldn't remember and somehow that hurt more than anything else.

She stepped out onto the roof, fifty two stories up. It was raining. The wetness was cool under her bare feet and she thought of how much Atton had loved the rain and it seemed right.

That was really the worst bit of it all. It seemed right.

She peered over the edge and remembered long summers, sunbathing up here. She tried to make out familiar shapes down in the street, tried to pretend for a moment that it was twenty years ago and Atton was on his way home and she would see him down there, but it was too far up and the street below was just a slick, shiny blur.

She began carefully to count backwards from ten, her courage increasing with each increment.

_Ten._

She remembered meeting Atton. They attended the same university and he'd strolled right up, easy as you please, and delivered the most cringe-worthy line, something silly about angels.

_Nine._

She remembered a late night when she was young, when Jaq was only a few weeks old. He was colicky and she'd been up for hours trying to soothe him but nothing worked. She remembered Atton appearing in the doorway and taking the tiny babe from her, telling her to get some sleep even though he needed it far more than she did.

_Eight, seven, six._

She thought of Atton sweeping her across the kitchen floor. Just a few tiny steps of the Weavers' Reel, the first dance at their wedding.

_Now, Delphine, if you want to dance the Reel, and believe me, you most certainly do, my dear, first we must go for a little walk. And now you curtsey and I bow, and that, my darling, that makes five.  
_

She closed her eyes tightly and let a foot dangle over the edge. A distressed, frightened squeak passed her lips, but she saw no other option. All she saw was Atton. Atton waiting at the bottom to catch her.

_Four, three._

She thought of Edus, ever faithful, all she had left, and her grandchild, barely a year old and felt guilt's sharp barb in her chest.

_Two._

Then she thought of Delta dying at Jaq's hands, and couldn't even begin to imagine what a terrible, awful woman, what a wretched, useless mother she must have been to have raised a such a cruel beast of a man.

_One._

Just a little walk to dance the Reel.

Just a little step to dance the Reel with Atton again.

That was all it took.

In glorious slow motion she watched the direction of the rain change, falling upwards instead of down, and on Citadel Station, Atton woke up in a cold sweat but there was Meetra, face awash with soft illumination from the holovision, staring at him in confusion and concern.


	42. Back rub

**Chapter Forty-Two**

_**The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement, who can tolerate not knowing, not curing, not healing and face with us the reality of our powerlessness, that is a friend who cares. **_

Meetra knew something was wrong before Atton even woke up. It hadn't been the soft sound of distress nor the thin sheen of sweat across his forehead that caught the flickering light of the holovision. Rather she had felt it through the Force. It was something akin to but not quite fear. Maybe sharp shards of guilt wrapped again and again in denial until the edges became blunt. Maybe the desperate horror that comes with being powerless to intervene as a tragedy unfurls in front of you. When she was younger, she would have wasted no time in indulging her curiosity, and slid her prying fingers inside his head to pluck out and inspect whatever it was that was upsetting him. But she understood boundaries far better now, and didn't want to know, not until he wanted to tell her.

Before last night, she had thought almost nothing of Atton. But since then, she had thought of nothing but. Now, she had a gift for him, hidden in her rucksack, that she would give him when he finally decided to share. And she knew a little secret about him but she would keep that too, until he was ready. But she had lied in the letter she wrote to Atton and sealed inside a small wooden box from her childhood. Not outright, but by omission. When the Twi'lek and the Wookiee handed over that crystal, she had indeed seen him holding it, it responding to his touch. She understood he was Force-sensitive. But there was something else. She had seen more than just that.

She had seen him not as the purposeless, mercurial scoundrel that lay only a few feet away from her, but as a Jedi, as true a knight as any she had ever known. He stood tall and proud, shoulders squared, chin pressed out, dressed in full Jedi garb. Not the ratty, dirty jacket he wore, not the apologetic slouch he so often sported. And he didn't look tired, or angry, or worn down like he had every day since she met him. Rather, he looked determined. He stared right at her, not afraid to meet her eye and in that moment she felt something she'd never had the fortune or pleasure to feel before. A love so deep and unadulterated that recalling the memory made her feel flush. If, in this vision, he was indeed a Jedi, it certainly was not the way a Jedi loves. Not the selfless, vague, existential love for all living things kind of love. But something passionate and intimate and private and aimed squarely at her.

Before she saw it, she cared little for her supposed responsibilities. She just wanted to run. Wanted to go back to Tython and live in ignorance, in blissful self-loathing. But now she looked over at Atton, and she'd seen all he could be. She had never been the most perceptive of Jedi, never one to receive visions or premonitions; there was a chance she was mistaken, but she desperately wanted to be right. She did not want to be right because she wanted to be looked upon like that, though she always had. She did not want to be right because she was attracted to Atton or found him charming, though she was and she did. She did not want to be right because she thought in any way she deserved it, for she knew she did not.

She wanted to be right because she sensed from him, especially during moments like this, that he was a husk of a man whose life knew little light or love or real joy. That he was as badly broken as she, maybe even more so. And though she'd been ready to run away last night, ready to shrug off this burden that had apparently been placed on her shoulders, she had decided now that she would stay and see it through. In no way did she understand how Kreia expected her to find or reunite the Jedi, or how she was meant to defeat a Sith of any calibre let alone multiple Lords. She could not even comprehend a future in which should would be able to command the Force again in any practical, applicable way. But she was certain she had it in her to stand beside Atton and hold the lamp for him as he traversed whatever dark path necessary to arrive at what she had seen. That morning, Meetra had taken Atton as a student, whether he knew it or not, and she had resolved to treat him with more respect and patience than she had so far so that she could divine a way to seep through his defences without shattering them.

In _Trampeta's Star Guide_, the book that came with the crystal, Revan had written only two sentences. Three, if she counted the word "Confirmed" on the entry about Taris.

_'The home you seek is not within these pages, but it does exist. Take the hands of those around you and guide them home, and they will show you yours.'_

She didn't know what that meant. She had always hated Revan's cryptic advice, and Kae's too, when she thought back. She made a guess though, and maybe she was just reading too far into it, but she could dream. Sitting there, feeling Atton's pain, she cupped her hands around the tiny flicker of hope within her, figuring that they would both need all the light they could get.

Meetra looked at him and heard the quiet rasp as he woke. The moment his eyes opened he was disoriented by still unfamiliar surroundings, and he glanced around to get his bearings. They made eye contact and held each other's gaze. She gave him a gentle smile.

"Have you ever seen this?" she asked, gesturing at the holovision.

She didn't miss his thankful pause before he turned to look at the screen, which was currently showing a man who was handsome in the most mundane of ways, blaster cocked at another man who was much the same. Atton blinked hard as his eyes adjusted to the light.

"What is it?" he asked.

"_Rogue Force_. It's the best worst thing I've ever seen."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. It's about this...hang on." She held up an index finger to make Atton wait, then pointed when the scene changed appropriately. "That guy. He's some kind of freelance special agent who has completely unrealistic Force powers, with absolutely no explanation of how he learnt them except that he's a sexy savant, of course. Is there even such a thing as a freelance special agent?"

"No idea," offered Atton.

"Neither. Anyway, his name is – did you see that?!" Meetra bounced where she sat, throwing an enraged hand towards the holovision. "You can't use the Force to shoot lasers from your fingers. This is so stupid."

"If it bothers you that much, maybe you should complain to the network," said Atton. He yawned, then folded his pillow over to better support his back.

"You're damn right I should. Forget Sith Lords, this is much more important," said Meetra, slamming a hand against her fist.

"Ah, Jedi. You guys always have your priorities straight," said Atton with a sneer he hoped Meetra would take as a jest.

"I'm not a – ugh, I can't be bothered," dismissed Meetra, waving her hand. "Anyway, look at this schutta. That's Gadon's wife -"

"Who?" asked Atton, frowning.

"Gadon...The..." began Meetra, clicking her fingers in frustration. "The guy. You know, the Force guy. That's his wife, and she's a total gold digger. Plus, she slept with his bishwag brother and now she's knocked up and oh no, the paternity is a mystery, naturally," she continued, voice growing sarcastic.

"You seem very involved in this," observed Atton.

"Have you noticed where we are? Can you think of anything better to do?" she asked with a shrug.

Atton gave a half-hearted smirk.

"Don't even," she scolded with a laugh in her voice, pointing an admonishing finger at him. Atton made a questioning gesture, as though he had no idea. She rolled her eyes and he just leaned back, folding his arms across his chest. Meetra looked back at the holovision and thought it over.

She'd given him a reprieve to bounce back, and outwardly he seemed fine, just like he always did. But her mind's eye stared him down and saw that in the silence he was only tumbling further down whatever rabbit hole had snared him. Every day, she set out with either Atton or Kreia or both, and each day she let strangers have her ear and her hands and her credits. Despite their apparent loathing of one another, Atton and Kreia always managed to agree that dispensing charity to any that asked for it was sheer stupidity. Neither seemed to understand that she did not do this because she was in any way a doormat or gullible, but because these acts went some way towards counteracting her own grief. From what she knew of Atton, she could only conclude that any attempts at deep discussion with him would fail. In light of this, she saw an opportunity to provide comfort in a way that might actually soothe him, and through active demonstration, teach him his first lesson – that doing a kindness for someone else can ease the ache in one's own heart.

"Atton..." she said, glancing over only momentarily.

"Something up?"

"I don't suppose you're any good with your hands?"

There was a pause, and Atton looked at her with suspicion. She was not surprised, but kept her face innocent and eyebrows raised.

"I'm plenty good with my hands, but it depends on what you want me to do with them."

"I was just...wondering if you could massage my shoulder? I pulled a muscle in my back or something earlier today. It's a weird angle, and I can't reach it," she explained, the lie passing her lips in a way that seemed nothing but genuine. Atton gave her a sour look, clearly uncomfortable with the prospect.

"Can't you just, you know, give your fingers a little wave and fix it yourself?" he asked, looking back at the holovision.

"Honestly?" she said, then sighed, deciding to offer a truth to compensate for the lie. "I can't really remember how to do anything with the Force."

There was another pause, longer than the first. Atton glanced at her briefly, then again. He gave a displeased groan. "Fine. Come here," he relented.

He did not look happy, but Meetra was not particularly concerned by that. She transferred from her bed to Atton's, folding a leg underneath her and letting the other hang off the edge. While Atton shifted around, she gathered her hair and twisted it, folding it around her neck, then pulled her arms up through her sleeves, so her shirt could sit around her neck, baring her back but concealing her front.

"Which side?"

"Left. Right in the blade."

Meetra felt Atton's finger tips tentatively touch her back, and knew he was reluctant. He paused for a long time, and Meetra tried to sense him without probing in places she didn't belong. She knew there was something very wrong, and not being able to ask pained her. She knew more than a thing or two about bonds, enough to know she'd already gone and done it to Atton though she hadn't meant to, and this was the inevitable product. A very literal kind of empathy, and his grief, whatever the source of it, seeped through her and made her feel hopeless. Eventually, he placed a hand on her opposite shoulder to hold her still and dragged the cheek of his spare hand where she had indicated.

Meetra exhaled and Atton inhaled.

He tried so hard not to think of his mother's face.

Rhyssa's death was easy to think about. He'd raged about it so often over the years and so frequently used it to justify all he'd done, that in some ways his feelings on the matter had really just become a parody of the grief he'd once felt. It did still hurt, but it was a crutch as well. An easy excuse for playing the villain; a foolproof reason to meet everything he faced in life with cynicism and apathy. He still loved her, but it was a love trapped in amber, hardened by time, and truthfully, he couldn't feel it the way he once had. There was really only anger and sorrow for potential lost. It used to be about her and what a tragic injustice her death was. These days, it was really only about feeling sorry for himself.

But his sister, and his mother. Their deaths were a pain of never fading freshness. A wound that never changed, and to think about them made him clamp metaphorical hands over his eyes like a frightened child because he couldn't bear to look. It was easy to blame Traya, and he'd wanted to tear her throat out the very second he saw her again at Peragus. However, it was times like this when his conscience decided to be honest with him, and tried to remind him that he had decided to defy Traya and spare Delta after that call. And then he'd killed her anyway.

Meetra's skin was soft and her back was firm and together made something very pleasing to touch. He knew with a tip of his head, he would be able to see at the very least the side of her breast, exposed by the awkward hang of her shirt. He knew if he suppressed his disgust at who she was and just focused on how attracted he was to her, he could probably easily turn this situation to his advantage, and figured maybe that wouldn't be a bad option because that had always been one of the most effective methods for drowning out this kind of distress. But he felt like he was standing at the top of a very deep canyon, and tonight lust was resting at the bottom and its call was too quiet to distract him from the remnants of dream still clinging and squeezing around his throat.

He found out about it from the HoloNet. His father had been important, and his mother had been fairly prominent in her field as well. It was only natural her death would be reported on Aldera's news network. The article had been vague. 'Slipped,' was the word used, off the roof and slammed into some poor fool's balcony twenty-something stories below, ruining his lovely new patio set. Ruled an accident, though it was more likely the Thuls put in a word with the coroner to spare his family the extra attention. But he didn't need any news report to explicitly state the truth to know there was nothing accidental about it, and it had most certainly been his fault. He'd killed one, and in doing so, killed the other. Delphine, his mother. Delphine, his sister. Same name, same dimpled cheeks, same smile. Murdered by the same hands. His hands. He knew so few details but his sleeping mind always seemed eager to torment him, as it tried to guess what her final thoughts might have been. He would wonder if she did it because she loved him or because she hated him. He was certain it was the latter.

He gripped Meetra's shoulder tighter, and the holovision became white noise. He closed his eyes and remembered tripping over the name. He was almost three, maybe. Delphine was too hard for him to say, and for Edus, and his mother got confused every time she heard her name referring to her daughter instead. One day their father sat him and his brother on the sofa and crouched in front of them, then tested nicknames to see which the two could both pronounce. He remembered a joyful clap, declaring they would call the baby 'Delta' now. That was the first. His face pressed against his mother's breast, the smell of her perfume, her dulcet voice humming a lullaby, the luxurious hush of sleep dragging down his eyelids. That was the second. Atton's very oldest memories.

A voice punctured the pleasantness.

_It's Delphine._

And that desperate pause.

_Jaq. Please. It's Delta. It's Delphine. Don't you recognise me?_

Over the years, that moment had come screaming back to him, again and again and again. Not when Delta died or the desperation that followed, but the moment when he realised who she was. He identified that as the very second he should have stood and bolted out the door. But he'd lingered too long and made the kind of mistake that could never be fixed. His concentration became absorbed by shame and he didn't realise that his hands had stopped still, his fingers digging viciously into Meetra's back. It hurt, though Meetra didn't mind. She drew him from his thoughts by saying his name – no, not his name. His father's name. As intended when he began calling himself Atton, it was a whip across his back each time he heard it. A heavy handed reminder of all he should have been but never was. But Meetra said it in a way that was reassuring and for once, Atton was glad to hear it.

He muttered a gruff apology and continued in a gentler fashion. It was a strange moment, and he felt close to her, for a reason he couldn't understand. For just a moment, she ceased to be General Meetra Surik who sickened him, that made that decision at Malachor, that killed the woman that he loved. Right then, she was just a person who was sitting there with him while he thought these awful thoughts, whose voice seemed to function as a rope around his middle to pull him back when he wandered too far away. When he began to concentrate his efforts more fully on her shoulder, he felt the crush around his throat dissipate and the air return to his lungs. He awkwardly moved to rub an eye with his forearm, lest Meetra turn around and see.

"How's that?" he asked, voice hoarse though he tried to disguise it. Meetra nodded.

"Just right."

She could not know it, but Meetra began to teach Atton something else that night. A lesson that was the most important and would take the longest to sink in. That darkness is powerless against darkness, and to push it back, one needs light.


	43. Delta

**Chapter ****Forty-Three**

**_A man that studieth revenge keeps his own wounds green._**

Each crevice and curve of his face flashed with muted shades of blue. The holovision emitted no sound, just an eerie glow that barely lit the room. Jaq was thankful it was not bright enough to break up the shadows that hid the nightmare in the corner. His face was blank and his mind chaotic, and the world was not just upside down but inverted, torn apart, and sewn together backwards.

He took a long drag from the cigarette in his hand and jumped as it burnt his lips and fingers. He looked to see it had smouldered down to the butt while he had been staring and growing distracted. It was bitter and painful, so with an angry jab, he stubbed it out on the sheet. It hadn't been long, maybe forty minutes, since he spoke with Traya on his comlink. He touched a hand to his chest, and the front of his shirt was soaked in blood. Wet crimson had coagulated and there was a pathetic crunch as he pulled the stiff fabric free from where it had stuck to his chest.

It hadn't taken much. All he had to do was sit around in the hotel's cantina, dreaming and hoping and begging the girl to slip away from her Master for a quick visit to the bar. And when she finally did, he'd laid it on well thick, too. All the usual stuff.

_It must be hard, being a Jedi, no husband, no boyfriend, no family. Don't you get lonely?_

_Haven't you ever wanted to be in love? _

_Haven't you ever wanted to be kissed?_

The young female Jedi were always flustered by that barrage of questions, especially when he squashed down the front of his hair like someone much younger and mimicked their blushing downward glances. So all he had to do was slip a little something in her drink as he leaned over to kiss her, then drag her back up to his room. When he booked the room earlier that evening, after following the mysterious Jedi and her Padawan back here, he'd made a point to mention his 'girlfriend' to the desk clerk, and got to make a joke on the way past about how his lady couldn't handle her liquor. And what a joke it was.

When he got her upstairs, he didn't touch her like _that_, though he could have. He knew it was the most efficient way to break the precious little things. It was rare to find any that weren't virgins; whatever the motivation the Jedi had there, he didn't know or care, but his colleagues didn't have any problem taking advantage of it. Not Jaq though. He'd thought about it, once or twice, with the ones that just wouldn't crack, but could never follow through. It wasn't a matter of nobility or respect; he wasn't a gentleman. No, he was just as brutal, even if he never hurt them that way. It was more that he didn't want to taint the experience by using it as a weapon. He loved women. Loved to make them coo his name and melt under his touch, and he didn't want to see any woman, not even some self-righteous little schutta of a Jedi, terrified of him during that. Jedi had ruined enough for Jaq; they weren't going to ruin that, too.

Of course, he'd kept up the pretence, and this silly teenaged girl had asked him if it would hurt in a voice that was airy and slurred. Barely able to conceal his smirk, he'd told her it would but just a little bit, then pinned her, blade pressed against her soft, silky throat, and told her to call her Master. And the second he saw in her eyes that she was already screaming out for help with her mind, he had slit her throat. All he remembered was a gurgle as air from her lungs escaped through the gash. He didn't notice how bloody the whole affair had been until now. He'd rushed it. Just dropped her body on the bed, grabbed his bowcaster, and found a good perch atop the basin in the refresher, his empty boot sitting in the jamb to stop the sensor from closing the door. And after a few minutes, in had burst the girl's Master and finally he got to see the woman he had felt tracking him for days. Only the back of her, of course, but with a casual_ fwipt fwipt_, there sailed two beautiful Somatoll-laced darts, one in her neck and one in her shoulder, and then she hit the floor. Pathetic.

That was hours ago.

He'd fitted the Jedi with Force cuffs, and a stun collar, lit himself a cigarette and sat back to congratulate himself. When she began to stir, he'd delivered his usual jolly and sarcastic greeting. A nice introduction, a reminder of just how far into the corner he'd backed her. But she'd pulled a weapon he hadn't planned on countering. _It's Delphine. It's Delta. Don't you recognise me?_

Jaq scratched his face. He didn't know what to do. He'd knocked her out with another round of Somatoll to give himself a chance to think, but still he had nothing and he was running out of time. This was a Republic planet. Not one where he could lounge around in a hotel room, with a slaughtered Padawan and another Jedi sedated, blood everywhere, waiting to make a decision. When Traya asked if her directive to kill Delta was understood, he had said yes. But it wasn't true, he didn't understand anything. He checked the time again and realised dawn was coming, and figured maybe his best option was just to talk to her. He reached into his jacket and pulled out the familiar velvet envelope that was the favourite element of his arsenal. A selection of sedatives, syringes, caplets and pills. Dipill, Somatoll, Thanatizine, Renatyl. Jaq carried a little of everything. Even a vial of glitterstim as a reward for when jobs went particularly well. He found what he was after; a syringe filled with a thick, blue stimulant called Vitzapine. He folded the velvet envelope over itself and tucked it back in his jacket. He climbed off the bed and walked across the room, observing Delta's slumped form for a moment before crouching before it.

He pushed her chin up and inspected her face. He wasn't quite sure why he didn't see it straight away. It had been almost eleven years, but it was undeniably her. She was the spitting image of their mother, even down to the perfectly symmetrical dimples, the kind that didn't need a smile to be present. He realised just how beautiful she was and it felt like a punch in the throat. He'd missed her. Force, had he missed her, so much over the years, and he missed his mother too. He missed his whole family, really. His father died years ago and no one told him. He'd mentioned it to Rhyssa, when he found out, and she had offered to speak with Malak to arrange leave, but the funeral had already come and gone, and he didn't see the point in going home. He obviously wasn't welcome there. He couldn't figure out why Delta would seek him out now, after all these years. He'd panicked earlier. Barely had chance to talk to her, but it couldn't be avoided now. He couldn't figure out what to do without her.

He shifted, so he was kneeling with a shin either side of her thigh and pushed her forwards so her head was resting against his torso. Brushing aside dark brown hair, the same colour as his, he pressed a thumb against the biometric lock on the stun collar around her neck, and it made a sickening squelch as the metal grip embedded in her skin retracted. He tore it off and tossed it to the side. Red pooled at the back of her neck, and he pulled his sleeve over his fist and wiped it away, but more seeped through the punctures. He sighed, defeated and let her droop back against the wall.

He took her hand in his and turned her wrist skywards. Her hands were still bound, and her left hand dangled there uselessly. He flicked his index finger against the soft skin below her elbow, eyes straining to find a vein, and when he finally did, he ripped the plastic cap off the syringe with his teeth and gently slid the needle into milky skin. She made a pained groan a few moments later, and he sat back on the floor beside her. She wasn't taking chances this time – no sooner had she stirred did her hands rapidly rise, but he grabbed her wrist tightly.

"Don't even think about it," he hissed.

"Jaq," she said, clearly struggling. He watched her heave for oxygen to clear her muddled head.

"Shut up," he growled and she nodded obediently, seeking a cease-fire while she regained consciousness.

They sat in tortured silence for several slow minutes, Delta blinking hard and breathing heavy. Jaq drummed his fingers on his thigh to calm his nerves but it didn't help. He grew impatient, and shuffled through his jacket for another stim. He took her arm again, but she shook her head.

"It's just a counter to the sedative," he said and she shook her head again.

"Don't want it," she said, with a hard swallow.

"Fine," he said, his grip closing around the syringe. He became aware of how hard he was squeezing it just in time to stop it shattering in his palm, and threw it on the bed in disgust. "What are you doing here?"

"What..." she started, then clamped her eyes shut, and Jaq could tell she was dizzy. "What do_ you _think, Jaq?"

"I don't know," he said, voice angry but chest heavy with hopelessness.

"You killed Tess," she squeaked, eyes still closed.

"Who?"

"My Padawan, Jaq. You killed her," she gasped then opened her eyes wide and tipped her head back.

Jaq just sat there. He had no real justification and didn't care enough to pretend he did.

"Doesn't matter, now," she continued, apathetic to his lack of response. She shook her hands at him. "Take these things off me."

"Are you serious? You're giving me an order?" he said, barely able to suppress a hollow laugh.

He glanced around the room. It was in a state. After the call to Traya, he had pulled a picture frame off the wall and smashed it across the dresser, sending generic white tea cups and little packets of sugar, coffee and complimentary biscuits sailing across the room. The glass door to the balcony was open, but there was no breeze so the air in the room stayed still, stained by the scent of stale cigarette smoke and the pungent, metallic waft of blood. It was a cold night, though, and it hadn't taken long for the chill to ooze into the room. He looked back at Delta and she still looked groggy, but he could tell she was fighting it.

"Take them off," she demanded again. Her voice was dark and her brow sunk low.

"Why would I do that?" he whispered, leaning in close.

"Because you don't want to know what will happen if you don't, Jaq Randolph," she hissed back, raising her chin slightly.

She ceased, then, to be his baby sister, and returned to what she had been before – just some Jedi schutta sitting there, asking him to tear her face to pieces. She was not afraid. That was what angered him. The problem for the Order was that they were rapidly running out of Jedi to fling at Revan. A good half of them had defected, another quarter were dead, and what remained were either too important to leave Coruscant or were barely trained, barely able to withstand the brutality of the Sith. Most of the Jedi Jaq dealt with were amateurs, frightened by him from the get go. Frightened of dying, frightened of falling, frightened of pain. It was rare to see a Jedi that wasn't, and trust his luck that she should be one of them. He struck her, then, as hard as he knew how. And she did not scream or squeal or cry, but her chest heaved in a way that almost made him feel like he may have made a mistake.

"Atton would be _so _ashamed of you," she spat, anger causing her voice to tremble.

"What the frack does that matter? In case you didn't notice, dad's dead, Delta," he shouted back, trying to hide how her comment made him feel like a pathetic little boy who had just been scolded for pulling his sister's hair. She didn't say anything. She just stared. Jaq felt a hot pinch in his nose and inhaled hard. "I have to...You know what I have to do."

"No, actually. No, I don't know, Jaq. I'm pretty sure you don't _have_ to do anything," she said, voice stiff and gaze unwavering. When Jaq didn't reply, she exhaled through gritted teeth. "You know it's wrong. You can't even say it."

"Why are you here?" he asked again, casually, unable to come up with a better response to her assertion.

"Delphine sent me," said Delta, letting her voice and eyes grow soft, "Coruscant and Alderaan have put out arrest warrants for you. She found out from Vidown. There will be more, soon, from other Republic planets. They're being issued for all Republic soldiers that defected after the end of the war. Charge is treason, Jaq, amongst other things. It's a death sentence if you get caught, do you know that?"

Jaq shook his head, abruptly, not as an answer but as a refusal to acknowledge her. The mention of his mother made a hot, pathetic tear drip down his cheek. He rubbed it away with a rough swipe of his wrist, furious with himself for being weak in front of her.

"Let me help," she implored him, in the kindest tone she could manage. She reached her hands up and touched his face, soft finger tips brushing against light stubble, but he pushed her away with disgust.

"No," he said, looking up at the ceiling because he couldn't stand her stare a moment longer.

"It's me, Jaq. Look at me."

"_No_."

"It's okay. Whatever you've done, it's okay."

"Listen. Delta," he said, looking back at her, and frowning hard to keep to keep his voice steady. "I don't...want to. But I don't have any choice." He reached out a hand and touched her neck, just a small caress, and then he closed his fingers around it. A wrinkle formed in the bridge of his nose, as he tried to hold back tears.

"There's always a choice. Everything you've ever done was a choice that you made, Jaq," she said. Her voice was overwhelming earnest, and his grip faltered for a second. He pursed his lips.

"I could take you to Korriban, instead," he whispered, letting his eyes grow wide, hopeful that she would just agree so he could be done with this mess.

"If you knew what they did there, you'd sooner kill me, Jaq," she said, rolling her eyes, an air of defeat in her tone. Another horrible silence ensued, where Jaq tried to avoid making eye contact with her, and she stared defiantly at him.

"I don't know what to do, Delta," he admitted, finally, making a pained gasp.

"Oh, Jaq, it's not as complicated as it seems," she said, taking a deep breath. She reached up again to touch his face, and was surprised when he just collapsed towards her, pulling her close and pushing his face into her shoulder. She tried to comfort him, but made a distressed squeak when the cuffs electrocuted her. Without prompting, Jaq sat up again, eyes wet and red though he made no effort to hide it, and released her of the binds. He replaced himself, and she pressed her hands to each side of his face and gently shushed him.

"I don't want to hurt you," he murmured, voice ragged.

"Then don't," she said, simply. "Let me help. Just...start wherever is best. Tell me why you do this."

"You can't help," he said, bitterly. She pushed back the floppy forelock that was always hanging in his face and kissed his forehead, then found his hand and linked her fingers through his.

"I'm your sister, Jaq. It's my job, dummy," she said, speaking into his hair. He felt the muscles in her face move against his crown and knew she had given him a gentle smile, and the small gesture had an overpowering comfort.

For the first time in all the years following Malachor, Jaq felt a stillness inside him. He realised, then, that really all he'd wanted was to tell someone just how much it hurt. He wanted someone to drag it up out of him and beat it into submission, but there had only been Revan. Revan telling them all that Meetra Surik had betrayed him, devised the Mass Shadow Generator of her own accord. That it was a plan formulated with the Order. That was why she left, why she went back to them. That it the Jedi that sabotaged them at Malachor. That it was Meetra Surik and the Jedi to blame for every last death, including Rhyssa's. Revan was the only one that offered any form of solace, even if it was only revenge. But revenge wasn't helping untie the knot in his chest, so sitting there, in the dull luminescence of the holovision, safe in Delta's arms, he told her every last little piece of it.


	44. I chose you

_Ah, so I've been gone for a while. I'm really behind on reviews and PMs and everything for which I apologise greatly, am currently in the process of catching up! Thank you to all the people who have followed and reviewed and favourited since I last updated! I usually like to send thank you PMs but I've lost track of my emails and what not so if you didn't get one, I did notice and appreciate, I'm just a dumb dumb ;)  
_

* * *

**Forty Four  
**

_**How shall a man escape from that which is written; how shall he flee from his destiny? **_

The sliding glass door to the balcony was closed, and the holovision was off. The morning sun peered over the tops of endless duracrete skyscrapers, and its light filtered through the room, knocking the chilly edge off the air. Jaq and Delta lay together on the bed, his head resting against her shoulder. His arm stretched over her lap while his hand played with the hem of the sheet.

The blood-stained bedspread was gone; when Jaq had begun to cry, Delta had stood and pulled it off the bed. She had wrapped it around the dead body of Tess, her Padawan, and without a word passing her lips or a tear eking from her eye, she had carried the body into the refresher where she had placed it in the tub. Jaq had laid there, watching her, the carpet making angry red patterns on his cheek. When the last swish of her robes had disappeared through the doorway, he had panicked for a moment as he remembered having tossed her lightsaber in the sink after the first time he sedated her. He had worried for a moment, that if she saw it, that might be the end of him, but if she had spotted it, she had ignored it. Instead she had only come back to Jaq, and offered her hand, and when he had taken it, pulled him to his feet. She had led him to the bed, pushing his shoulders down and sitting beside him, and Jaq had sidled up against her, and clung to her middle like a frightened child seeking refuge in his mother's embrace.

Jaq had scarcely seen Delta since they were small children, and each reunion had been more unpleasant and uncomfortable than the last. They were essentially strangers; he did not know her, her likes or dislikes or the intricacies of her personality, and she did not know his, but there was a bond between them that time could not wear away and Jaq felt it. It had crawled around him and through him, over and under him and held him still. Something had broken inside him when he had touched her, when she had held his tired head when they were on the floor. And the words, the cursed explanations for the pathetic spiral that was Jaq's life, had come so fluidly and easily because they were destined for her ear. He had found himself able to tell her things that were so repressed and secretive that some of them he had not even admitted to himself before. And Delta has listened, patiently and earnestly, and gave him not a word of judgement, but continued only to hold him and reassure him and be the anchor that he had needed.

"Do you remember when grandpa died, and we all slept in mum and dad's bed?"

"No." Delta closed her hand into a fist, feeling almost guilty for remembering so little from her childhood on Alderaan.

"Dad drank a whole bottle of bourbon. And when the sun came up, he cried. It was the only time I saw him cry." Jaq closed his eyes, as the memory stung a little sharper than he expected.

"Were we in the middle?" whispered Delta, a soft frown pressing at her brow.

"What?"

"Were you and I between Atton and Delphine?"

"And Ed was next to dad, yeah."

"I think I do remember," offered Delta, giving a slight nod. "I remember his face. He was so..._sad_." Delta pursed her lips to still the memory and an uncomfortable silence settled between them.

Eventually Jaq took a breath. "Why didn't anybody tell me when dad died? Do you know what it was like finding out from the fracking HoloNet?"

"I didn't have anything to do with it. It had been years since I'd seen any of them, let alone you. Delphine said she tried to find you, but you didn't tell anyone you'd enlisted. You just left, and she didn't know where to look."

"I always just assumed they knew."

"Why?"

Jaq paused. "I don't know."

"Well, she wanted you there."

"How is she?"

"She's been better, I imagine. I – I don't have a lot to do with Delphine, Jaq. I think she struggles, but we don't really speak. Before she contacted me about you, I hadn't conversed with her in...more than a year, I think."

Jaq sat up, and leaned his back against the headboard. He folded his arms, and gave Delta a sideways glance. "You said before..." He looked forward, staring hard at the wall. His nostrils flared and the corners of his lips rose into an involuntary snarl. "Does she..." He gestured pathetically, unable to finish his query.

"She knows all you do. But she loves you, Jaq. She is frightened for you." Delta placed her hand atop Jaq's, then, and sat patiently while he recovered.

Jaq savoured the silence for a moment longer. "What's the time?" he asked, finally, pulling his hand out from under Delta's and picking up her wrist. Her turned her arm over so he could see her chrono. "Almost eight."

Delta only gave a nod, but Jaq knew what she was thinking.

"Can't stay here," said Jaq, his voice stiff. Over the last few hours, Delta had acted as a cocoon, a shield and his mind had wandered away freely. But the light through the window served as a reminder, calling him to recommence worrying about the maid coming by with towels, or the dead Padawan in the tub, or what he would say when Traya called to confirm that he'd completed the job. He couldn't kill Delta, he knew that much, but he didn't know how to avoid hurting her without ending up dead himself. He felt on edge, waiting for Delta's reply.

She just nodded slowly, then took a deep breath. She made a tiny o with her lips as she exhaled, then looked at Jaq with a blank face. "What do you want to do, Jaq?"

"I know what I don't want to do." Jaq sat up, and shifted around so he was sitting cross-legged, looking at her.

Delta crossed her ankles, and then her arms. "That's not what I asked."

"I don't know," he said, shaking his head and looking down.

She reached a hand out to touch his face, but he pushed it away and shook his head again.

"What do you want me to say, Delta? Everything is...Everything is. Fragged. 'S all fragged up. I'm not going to hurt you, I won't. But what am I supposed to do?" His body turned towards her as he spoke, his eyes desperately scanning her face.

Delta shook her head. "Jaq. Just...Tell me what you want to do, and I will help you."

Jaq pressed his back against the headboard again and ran his palm over his face. "I want to go home. I want to see mum, and, Ed and..." He shrugged and tipped his head back in desperation.

"Then that's what we'll do."

Jaq was almost shocked by the simplicity of her words. He rubbed the back of his neck. "What about the arrest warrant?"

"Jedi are part of Republic Law Enforcement, Jaq. You'll be fine with me," she said, her tone indicting she thought as much should be obvious. She placed her palms flat on the bed, and slid to the edge of the mattress.

With Jaq still watching her, Delta walked to the mirror and inspected her face. She reached behind her head and began to pull the pins from her already fraying braid. When she let go, her hair dropped, and she rearranged it around her shoulders in an effort to disguise the large, deep bruise Jaq had inflicted. She turned her head back and forth, then grimaced. "This won't do," she muttered, and raised a hand to her jaw. The very faintest glow spilt from where her palm touched her face, and the bruise rapidly faded. By the time she took her hand away, it was gone.

"You just...You just do shavit like that all the time?" asked Jaq, making a face.

"Does it bother you?" Delta raised an eyebrow and gave him a severe look.

Jaq shook his head, though it very much did bother him. "Are you ready to go?"

"I am, but you're not," she said, raising her hand, then looking back to the mirror a final time.

"What do you mean?" Jaq demanded, his tone whet with indignation.

Delta crossed the room, and jabbed her finger into his chest. The dry blood made a muted crackle under her finger, and she raised her eyebrows.

He looked down. "Oh, that," said Jaq. "I don't know what to do about that."

"Not just that," she muttered, as she pulled Jaq's coat back, and began to inspect him. She tore his blaster from its holster, and tossed it on the bed, then pressed her fingers against his cheek to turn his head and started removing his comlink.

"What are you doing?" he snapped, attempting to lean back but she persisted.

"All of this needs to stay behind. It's Imperial issue, and that comlink no doubt has a tracking device. If you want your employers after you, well, that's fine, but I'd rather do without the trouble."

"Delta," he said, frowning. He, too, began to pat down his coat to remove anything questionable or traceable. "What am I going to do? I was told to kill you and I'm not really keen on crossing a Sith Lord, you know, and they're going to find me and -"

"I'll protect you."

"But -"

"Jaq. Look at me," said Delta, cupping Jaq's face and giving him a stern stare. "I wasn't supposed to come here. I asked permission, from the Council, and they said no. They said it was a waste of time, of resources. And in a lot of ways, they weren't wrong. My Padawan lost her life over this. And I knew that was a possibility, but I left anyway."

Jaq felt uncomfortable, and opened his mouth to protest but Delta frowned deeper.

"I chose you. Over everything I care about and believe in, I chose you and Revan himself can walk through that door if he wants, but I won't let him take you. You cannot walk away from people like that. You have to run. But I will run with you. Do you understand?"

Her grip on Jaq's face tightened as she spoke, and he felt a heat inside him. It was painful and cruel in a way, the realisation that someone loved him. He was confused and exhausted and more emotional than he'd been in years. He felt nothing but turmoil because the hate within him remained. Yet, here was a woman, who represented everything he loathed and wanted to destroy, and it was her hand, not that of any Sith, that had grabbed him and was holding him against the pull of the void. He did not have the words to communicate any of this to her, so he only continued to look at her face until she let go.

"C'mon," said Delta, tipping her head but towards the door as she turned.

"Delta -"

"Let's go."

Jaq touched his hair behind his ear, before giving a frustrated sigh and following her. Delta stopped at the door, standing still and silent for just a moment, before hitting the button, and whisking out into the corridor. Her walk was fast and full of purpose, and they headed not for the lift, but the stairwell. Jaq pulled his coat closed, but it wasn't quite enough and when he cast a glance at his chest, the blood stain remained mostly visible. Delta slipped through the door and jogged down the stairs, Jaq following close behind. When they reached the bottom, Delta slipped her hand in Jaq's and walked swiftly through the door and across the lobby, and out into the crowded street.


	45. Pinky-swear, please

**Chapter Forty-Five**

_**When you grow tired, Hesperus, know that every man suffers, but heroes always stand again **_

_I kneel beside you and watch your face. You look like Atton. Your jaw, your ears, your nose, they're all his. Even your mannerisms, your little expressions; they're Atton's. It would be easy to mistake you for him, in some ways. Easy to feel relaxed around you, easy to think that you're safe and good and kind like he was. But I see beyond that, Jaq. I see that really, you're nothing like Atton, and if that hurts, then that's what I intended. You don't even care about a reason anymore. Maybe you did, once. Maybe you started doing what you do because you thought it was right, in some twisted way. But now? Now, you're just selfish, greedy and full of rage. You're determined to make everyone feel the same hurt you feel. So maybe you look like Atton, but you're not him._

_You promised, once, to protect me from the Sith. Do you remember, Jaq? We were only little. You didn't know what that meant. You couldn't know how we would end up. Well, you might be calm now, sleeping, but I know it can't last. So let me just acknowledge this, before we go any further: I'll slam the iron fist of my Force right through your skull if I have to, to turn you away from this. Because things don't always turn out the way one expects, and it's you that needs protection, not I. If you refuse to understand why you do this, then I'll show you. I'll show you everything until you're in more pain than you ever thought possible and then you'll see the truth._

_Do you want to know why I would do such a thing, Jaq? It's because I love you. I love as you as deeply as I could ever love another person. And if I had a thousand lives, I would have chased you down in every single one of them, and I would lay down every last one to save you. I would do it again, and again, and again, because you're better than this and I will not, I cannot let this happen. There's no sacrifice I can make that you're not worth, Jaq._

* * *

After a good deal of bickering, they had taken Delta's ship off world. Jaq's was Imperial-issue, compact, and had no crew. It was fast, stealthy, and his for years and he'd taken great care of it. It was his preference, but Delta had refused. Her reasoning – just like her reasoning for leaving behind his weapons and his comlink – was solid. Taking it would only make it easier for the Sith to find him, and besides, she claimed, she'd tracked him a good deal longer than he'd realised. Across the last three planets he'd been to, for that matter, and sick of constantly losing him, she'd had his vessel flagged by local law enforcement. She explained that the second it ascended it would be shot down, and so was simply not an option. He had to bite back anger at this, but he'd managed to contain his temper long enough to agree to take Delta's instead.

Delta did have a crew – two pilots, a technician and an astromech droid – as Jaq discovered once they boarded. Still paranoid and edgy, Jaq had reacted more than just badly to this revelation. He immediately took their presence to be a threat, and had began to shout at Delta. He'd been ready to bolt, to disappear, hidden amongst the packed streets and wriggle away from her grasp once more. Seeing no other option, Delta had barked at Jaq to calm down, then sent each of her crew away with a fistful of credits, telling them apologetically that they would need to find alternate transport back to Coruscant. She was not pleased by this, that much was obvious, but Jaq was temporarily pacified and that was good enough. Delta explained to him, thereafter, that though he was welcome to shower and eat and rest, he would now need to act pilot, and knowing the volatile nature of the Sith, she felt it was better that they leave sooner rather than later. Jaq did as asked, and plotted a course to Alderaan that passed through only the most desolate and empty systems and depots to lesser their chance of being intercepted.

Once he'd made the jump, Delta had shown him the refresher, and fetched him something clean to wear. He'd showered and tried very hard not to think of everything that had just happened. After dressing, he had shuffled to the dorms where Delta had indicated and taken the bunk closest to the door. It had been a long, taxing night and he fell asleep almost immediately. But it was fitful rest, broken and unsatisfying and he woke with an unpleasantly dry mouth. He was facing the wall, and after a second he became aware of a set of long fingers carefully wedged between his upper arm and his ribcage. He turned, carefully, to find Delta kneeling at the side of the cot, her temple resting against the edge of the mattress. She was asleep and Jaq took the opportunity to study her face once more.

A fleeting smile crossed his face when he spied her dimples, just like their mother's, but it faded when his eyes travelled down. A deep, purple welt had formed on her neck where he had thrust the third Somatoll dart, and her cheeks and eyelids were puffy and pink, as though she'd been crying. He gingerly laid the pad of his index finger against the wound he had inflicted.

"Delta?" he whispered, moving his hand to push back her hair, still loose and draped over her face and around her shoulders.

She sniffed, then startled. "Jaq." She sat up, lashes fluttering, taking her hand back without delay.

Briefly, he considered asking if she was alright, but there was enough awkward tension between them already and he didn't feel like adding to it. Instead, he sat up, shrinking away from her, his gaze flicking between his lap and her crumbled form. Delta ran her palms over her thighs, smoothing out the myriad of creases and wrinkles in her clothes. Unlike Jaq, she had not washed. The tunic she wore still carried smears of blood from when she had first walked into that hotel room the night before and held the limp body of her Padawan. Her hand had rose, cradling a soft green glow that traced her silhouette in a way Jaq would never forget, and she had pressed her palm against the girl's forehead in a desperate and vain attempt to heal her; the only action she'd been able to take before Jaq snared her.

His eyes ran over Delta's face, and to him she seemed embarrassed, a product of her falling asleep beside his bed, a strange show of affection.

"You must be hungry," said Delta, her voice brisk. She balled her fists and pressed them into her thighs to stand in a single, swift motion and looked down at Jaq with expectation.

Jaq paused, then gave an obedient nod. He stood and, as seemed to be becoming custom, followed Delta out the room and down the hall.

* * *

_I can hear your footsteps behind me. I can feel your eyes burning into my back. I can feel how much you hate me, Jaq. I can hear you thinking that you wish I'd change into something that didn't make me look like one of them. I can hear you thinking that you wish I wouldn't walk with my spine so straight, or let my foot steps fall so surely. You want me to be that little girl, don't you, Jaq? The one who could see nothing but good in you? But I'm not. I haven't been her for a long time, Jaq. I'm Jedi; it's what I am, it's everything I am, and I cannot stop because a man has convinced you to carry his vendetta as if it were your own._

_You swallow Revan's lies even though they are bitter poison, even though they are clearly false. Jedi do not scheme, Jaq. They care not for revenge. The Council stayed away from the Mandalorian Wars with good purpose, but they never sought to punish those that participated. They had no hand in what happened at Malachor, regardless of what Revan had say to turn you. We know so little about the Generator, but it was not the evil genius of a nineteen year old Padawan; it was not an act of the Order's villainy. It was that of the fallen Knight Revan. _

_Do you know what happened when Padawan Surik returned? They had to chain her, Jaq. They had to subdue her. I worked in the Archives on Coruscant, and I did not witness her trial but I saw her arrival, and she was like a rabid dog, so full of foul anger. Do you know who did that to her? None but herself. That is the price for following Revan. He turns on all his allies eventually and he will turn on you. Do you know who killed Rhyssa Sularen, Jaq? The Revanchist's own greed for glory and reckless pursuit of victory. It was Revan that betrayed her, the man she chose to trust instead of the Order, and if you wish to seek vengeance on her behalf, it is against Revan and his flock you should render it._

* * *

Jaq scratched the side of his face. Delta's ship was different to his. Shiny, well-lit, spacious. If he was more comfortable with her, he would have remarked that it flew like a dream, would have let himself enthuse over little details only a pilot would care about. Earlier that same day, in that hotel room, they had spoken for hours, but now it was late, almost midnight, and conversation felt strange and difficult. For Jaq, it was the realisation that his life had completely changed and would most likely never have any semblance of normality again. Not that he had a lot to begin with, but still. With the Sith, he had routine. He had a pillow to press over the face of his worst memories when their screaming grew too loud, and he had something to feed the intense hunger that was his addiction to the depleting Force of his victims. It was the only thing that had felt even vaguely good or okay since Rhyssa had died and he didn't feel like he could live without it.

With Delta, there was no certainty, no control. He looked at her. She walked like a Jedi. Certain foot steps, square shoulders, chin level. She dressed like a Jedi. Why she hadn't changed into something else yet, he couldn't fathom and it bothered him but it wasn't worth saying anything. Instead he just trundled on behind her. Before they reached the galley, Jaq's mind wandered back to his newly found duty and he stopped.

"Hey, hey Delta," he said, crossing his arms as he waited for her to turn. "I'm just going to, you know, check the cockpit. Make sure we're on track. Not good to leave it too long unattended, you know?"

Delta's body turned seconds after her head did, her face sullied with what looked like irritation. She ironed it straight almost immediately, back into the blank, calm expression Jaq was beginning to understand was her preferred look. "I'm sure it's fine, Jaq. Let's eat first," she said, then offered a smile.

Jaq took a step backward, and tipped his thumb to his right, in the direction of the cockpit. "It'll only take a second."

"You do not want to go to the cockpit, Jaq. You want to come with me, and have something to eat."

Jaq hesitated. Her voice was serene, almost angelic, and it made Jaq's skin crawl. If she was using the Force, she was being subtle enough that he couldn't feel it, but he could tell from her metered tone and too-encouraging smile that something was wrong.

"Come on, Jaq," she said, making a small gesture.

Jaq instinctively took mental inventory of his situation. He was unarmed, she was Jedi, this was her ship, he was trapped. He panicked, and the noise of his heartbeat in his ears was so loud he couldn't hear reason trying to remind him that she was Delta, his sister, that he could trust her.

He took a few backwards steps. "It'll only take a second," he repeated, through gritted teeth, then turned and walked swiftly to the cockpit, intent on finding whatever she was hiding.

Delta called after him, and eventually gave pursuit, but Jaq did not wait. Jedi tried mind tricks on Jaq all the time, and he'd divined more than one method to resist it. Pazaak was the most effective, and generally Jedi hit him with their Force so strongly that it just bounced right off the shiny, laminated surface of his little fortress. Delta's, however, was softer and fluid and seeped right in, making a soggy mess. So gentle was she, that he could barely feel it as she slid inside his head.

"You don't care about anything in the cockpit, Jaq. You want to come with me."

He felt an eagerness to agree with her, and the words raced up his throat and began to skate over his tongue and he stopped them only just in time. "Get out of my fracking head, Delta," he spat, not caring to look back. He crashed into the cockpit, making straight for the navigator. He noticed immediately.

Delta stopped dead in the doorway. "_Jaq._"

"This isn't the course I set," he seethed, his tone so thick with hate it oozed through his teeth. He made a stiff fist and pushed it against the screen of the navigator, before snapping his elbow and bringing it crashing back down against the glass. The screen held against his assault but the sound echoed off the durasteel walls, piercing the graceless silence.

"Jaq." She pushed harder, manoeuvring through the broken mess that was his mind with a deftness that frightened him. "Stop looking at the navi. Come to the galley with me, and have something to eat."

Delta took a step forward and began to raise her hand but stopped short when Jaq whipped around. His eyes were alight with rage, and his fist rose, his fingers so tightly clenched that his arm shook. Jaq's temper, because it had benefited him to let it roam rampant, was a beast he could barely control these days and he could feel it thrashing in his chest, one hard thump away from crashing straight through his ribcage.

"You need to leave. Get away from me."

"Jaq," said Delta, her voice still metered, as her eyes scanned him. She was not scared, but she saw how hard he was fighting against all he'd been taught and she felt her control of the situation slipping away. "Come on, Jaq. Everything's fine. Just take a breath."

"No," shouted Jaq, with such force tiny flecks of saliva flew from his mouth. "_You lied to me._"

"No, I didn't, Jaq," she continued, taking another ginger step towards him. She placed her hands up, exposing her palms to him.

"You li -" Jaq bit down hard, trying to stop himself from shouting again. He let his head dip, took a few hard breaths, then looked back up. He attempted to wrestle his voice back to its normal pitch, but there was a sharp undertone of rage filtering just below its surface. "You lied to me. Where are we going?"

Delta looked at Jaq. She was quiet, surveying, carefully planning her next move.

Jaq was incensed by her lack of response, and reached forward, taking her collar in his fist. "_Where?_"

Delta kept her cold, composed stare fixed on him, unperturbed by his manhandling of her. "Coruscant."

Jaq laughed, the same hollow, joyless laugh he gave whenever Jedi surprised him. He nodded. "Yeah." He let her go, giving her a sharp shove in the process."You lying little schutta. What, you going to take me back to the Council? Take me back there so they can kill me? Or you are just going to hand me straight over to the Senate, huh? Which is it?" He leaned against the wall and crossed his arms, hooked one ankle over the other and fixed her with a smug, cheerless grin.

"No, Jaq." She frowned then, as though she was quite offended by his assumption.

He saw her chin move, her nostrils close for just a second, the corners of her mouth twitch, but he didn't care. "I trusted you." He raised his own chin, staring down his nose at her with nothing but contempt.

Delta motioned to take another step forward, but stood still when Jaq sneered.

"You were right to do so. I'm trying to help."

"No, you – you -"

"Jaq. Look at me," she hissed, her eyes flicking back and forth over his face frantically. "Do you understand what Revan does? Because I don't think you do. The Jedi that you kill are lucky. The ones you capture and ship back to Revan, do you know what he does to them? Do you know what he'll do to you?"

Jaq scoffed, shaking his head. "Why would he do anything to me? What has this got to do with anything?"

"Because you're just like them, Jaq," she said, in barely a whisper, finally closing the gap between them. They were roughly equal in height and she stared straight into his eyes. "You're just like me. The Force, Jaq, flows through you as surely as it does me."

"You're. I am_ nothing_ like you." Jaq pushed her, his palm flat against her shoulder, and swept from the room. He wasn't sure where he was going but panic had its fist tight around his throat and he couldn't stand to be around her a second longer.

"Jaq!" called Delta, turning on her heel to walk after him. "No, don't you walk away from me, Jaq Randolph." Without thinking, Delta snapped her hand out, letting her Force wrap tight around Jaq. She was careful, still, not to hurt him, but he was stuck.

"Delta. Let me go," he growled, rolling his shoulders, vainly trying to wriggle free.

"No," asserted Delta, her voice imbued with a severity and volume she had held back before now. "How do you think you alluded me for so long? Do you know how hard it was to find you? Not every man can kill a Jedi, Jaq. How do you think you lured my Padawan down to that cantina? Are you so insolent that you cannot see it?"

"What are you talking about, you stupid schutta?" hissed Jaq, still fidgeting, his choked by anger.

"Untrained Force-sensitives are dangerous, Jaq. _You_ are dangerous. The Jedi on Coruscant can help you, Jaq. I thought I...would be able to do this on my own, Jaq, but it's...I do not have the strength to tear it from you myself."

"If you...don't...fracking...let me go," struggled Jaq, taking deep heaving breaths every few syllables, "I'll rip your heart out, you _stupid, lying piece of Jedi skrag_." Jaq groaned in pain as the pressure around him dissipated, and he fell hard on his knees. He looked up at Delta, panting with rage. He observed her face – she wasn't frightened, and it was not the threat that had stopped her. She was just watching again, like she had been the whole time. Jaq waited, to catch his breath, then nodded. He rubbed his left hand over his face, and extended his right. And Delta moved towards him at a costive pace then took his hand. Jaq closed his large fingers around Delta's slender ones, and stood. He looked at her, a moment more, and placed his spare hand on her face, cupping her jaw. Then, carefully, he slid it around to her nape, fingers threaded through her long, dark hair. Delta realised too then, but she was too late to stop it. Jaq's hand closed tight, a fistful full of that long, dark hair and slammed her face without hesitation into the durasteel wall.

"You're just like the rest of them."

He slammed her face again, and heard a peal of satisfying little noises as her jaw and cheekbone shattered.

"I should have killed you last night. You're a liar. _You're a liar._"

He was breathless, again, and all he could do was gasp for more oxygen. Her nails pressed deep into Jaq's forearm, but for a reason that was beyond him he could not feel it. She screamed, but he hadn't heard it. And her face, their mother's face, collided with the wall once more, but he could not see it. He did feel it though, when her elbow connected with his windpipe. He stumbled backwards, his sweaty palms covered in broken strands of her hair. She wasted no time in crushing him with her Force, and pinned him against the floor. Before he had time to register what had happened, Delta had crawled atop him, her knees in his ribs and her bloody, mangled face hovering right above his.

"I am not lying, Jaq. I'm trying to save you."

Jaq offered no response, but only tried to move his head away to escape her gaze. Wet, hot blood dripped from her face to his, and slipped down the curve of his cheek into his mouth.

"Look at me. Jaq Randolph, look at me. _Look me in the eye_," she thundered. She wrapped her hand around his jaw and gave him no option but to stare up at the damage he had caused.

He looked at her, and he could not see his sister. He could not see anything. So blinded, so corrupted, so in pain was Jaq that she was a stranger, and right then, he wanted her dead. All he wanted was to kill her and make it stop. He could make sense of nothing, had been fed on nought but lies and hate for years and he was too weak and spiritually malnourished to fight it. Delta pulled her hand over his mouth, and pressed her forehead against his. It took a moment, and he tasted blood again, but then there was a peculiar pain in his temples. He expected her to do something like Traya always had – sharp acerbic jabs of the Force to keep people in line, but the pain depleted quickly. It morphed into a warmth and a pressure that built and built. Jaq tried to push it away but he could not block it.

In fluid spirals his mind spun, swept up in the sheer ferocity of Delta's power. It felt unpleasant and Jaq wanted to scream, wanted to push her off but could not figure out a way to do so. She reached deep inside of him until she was touching every facet of his being, every moment of his past, present and future, and she pulled at his own Force desperately, making him feel the physical pain he had inflicted, the turmoil within her, the grief and love she felt for him. He saw it, then, and understood. But he was frightened, and he did not want to face the truth, because no matter how closely he inspected, he could not believe that she was really Delta. He could not believe that anybody would ever try to save him.

* * *

_You blame this on a woman. A Jedi. _Was_ she Jedi, Jaq? Was she good and kind? Did she take up arms to defend and protect? Was she full of light? Because if she was Jedi, you serve her memory no respect by defiling her kin. Indeed, all you do is prove yourself a fool. In a galaxy that's rife with poverty, slavery, cruelty, war, disease, you, Jaq, you were born into wealth and privilege, to parents that loved and cared and provided for you. You did nothing to deserve it but you received that blessing anyway. You complain of hunger, while before you rots a banquet. You complain of the cold, when you have let the hearth grow dim while firewood sits neglected, eager to be used. You complain of the cage that life has trapped you in, but you hide the key in your fist and pretend it isn't there. _

_Revan has fashioned a leash from your grief, don't you see that? And like a good dog, Jaq, you sit, roll over, play dead, beg at his beck. You think you are fighting, but you're submitting. You think you are seeking justice, but you are only spreading the same evil that killed her. I am not afraid to die, Jaq, and I am not afraid of you. But I am afraid for you, and for what killing me will mean for you. _

_Eventually, Revan will notice the power inside you. I would not be surprised if he already has. Why do you think they are so adamant you kill me, Jaq? Don't you want to know why it has to be you? Do you want me to tell you, Jaq? It's because when you empty a man of everything he believes in and loves, it makes it so much easier to fill him up with your own greed and hate. And that's just exactly what they have planned for you, Jaq. They'll break you until you're not but dust, and then they'll plaster you back together any way they please. How do you turn back from that? What light is there bright enough to penetrate the shadow that will cast over your life, your future, your past, your entire being? If there is one, I do not know it. And so I am here to save you, even if you don't want to be saved. Even if it means tricking you, means lying, even if it means betraying you. I will not let him hold you a second longer. I will not._

* * *

Jaq was drowning in Delta's Force. She spoke to him, not with words, but with her mind. Her voice was so loud that it made his head ring, and he petrified. He wanted her to let go, he wanted her to stop. He tried, he tried to scream for help, but he couldn't make a sound. And then he felt something cold and promising in his fist, and when he looked at it, it glinted back at him. How it got there, he couldn't tell but he twisted and bent his body, reaching and cutting and stabbing to free himself from the strangling black tendrils of Delta's Force. The noise in Jaq's head only grew and grew, and an intense pressure built in his temples that made his ears and eyes begin to ache. Still he cut. He cut, and cut, but the noise increased, until Jaq could see and hear nothing but the screeching, piercing silence of white noise. He could not breathe, could not focus, could not. Could not.

When he severed the last filthy tangle trapping him, the noise stopped and the shock was so sincere that Jaq felt the painful echo for several moments.

And then he looked at Delta.

And her face, their mother's face, that beautiful dimpled perfect face was gone.

Jaq gave a strangled cry that barely made it past the ball of rage and grief in his throat and the knife dropped from his hand. He pulled her limp figure to his chest, pressing his chin against her head. He picked her hand up and hopelessly flailed it around, and begged. His voice was ragged, and his eyes and nose stung, as he begged her to stop playing around.

_Stop playing around._

_Stop it._

_Delta._

_You can fix this, can't you?_

_You can heal yourself. You're a Jedi, aren't you?_

_Delta._

_Please, fix it._

_Please. Please._

_Please._

He hooked her smallest finger with his, told her he would never hurt her again, that he would never hurt anyone again if she would just fix this.

_Pinky-swear. Pinky-swear, Delta, please._

But it was hopeless, and there in his arms she died. His baby sister. The last Jedi Jaq would ever kill.


	46. Reading into things

_Hey ladies and gentlemen, you beautiful, sweet things. So, my little story here is getting very long, and I'm beginning to think that I could benefit from the strict but loving eyes of a beta. If any of you wondrous beings are interested in beta reading Clouds, or you have any beta recommendations, let's discuss this, please and thank you. Send me a PM!_

* * *

**Chapter Forty-Six**

_**I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free.**_

Free at last of Citadel Station, Meetra beamed. That place had held scant joy for her. Durasteel walls and ceilings forming an endless panorama of grey and stale, recycled air reminded her of nothing but the Mandalorian Wars and her long stints in space with nary a drop of natural light or fresh breeze to be found. Her childhood served her with an abundance of free time that she agreeably spent wandering through the gently sloping mounds and vales of Dantooine. It was not the trees or flowers or gentle coo of birds she had been drawn to, but the bountiful tints and chroma of the sunshine and the entrancing way it enhanced all it touched. She cared not whether her boots trod upon grass slick with dew or hard, smooth duracrete, as long as there was nothing above her pate but open sky. This quality ill-served her over the course of the Wars. During her cloister on Tython, however, this preference had been duly indulged, encouraging a peace that tempered the turmoil caused by the Force being reft from her.

However, what inner stillness she had found over the years was easily disturbed by a month of being confined to Citadel Station, the sudden end of her seclusion and the constant company of Kreia and Atton that had been thrust upon her. For weeks she had felt rather like a fish plucked from the ocean, squirming for air on the shore, while the Force trampled through her, its wayward feet kicking up dust long settled in its absence. Though she continued to struggle, she was adapting, surely if not quickly, and today, strolling through the Telos Restoration Zone, she felt particularly light. Kreia's borderline condescension and unusually deep knowledge of her past continued to irritate Meetra, but she could not deny that the strange woman seemed to instinctively know the right way to instruct her. She could not begin to understand it, but could feel her infantile and tenuous grasp of the Force grow stronger under Kreia's guidance and she was finding comfort in its company again.

She also found Atton's presence more palatable by the day, and he was now managing to allow the occasional conversation between sleazy comments and unwarranted hostility. It was all a delightful maelstrom to Meetra; there was a strange variety of equilibrium to be found amongst the chaos. Put simply, she felt okay, for once. Even that morning's graceless crash landing, and the subsequent, unexpected company of a shadowy, stoic man who had introduced himself as Bao-Dur and claimed to know her when her face was white and her heart was black was not enough to shake away her simple felicity. So, strolling along, her hands swinging freely at her sides, Meetra closed her eyes to properly bask in the sun and found herself needing to expend more than a mote of effort on taming her step to prevent from breaking into a skip.

She took a deep breath, and the crisp scent of clean, pure air was interrupted by the faint but distinct redolence of cigarettes, shaving soap and sweat. The last month had made it a familiar combination of smells, and not an unwelcome one due to its source, though even Meetra would admit that defied logic. She closed her eyes tighter for just a second as her lips curved into a sly smile, then looked right to see Atton standing beside her. His hand was closed tight around the grip of his blaster, its barrel held flush against his torso, as he stared forwards. Before them walked Bao-Dur, and Kreia even further ahead still, but Atton's eyes were trained resolutely on the back of Bao-Dur's head. Meetra saw the suspicion and mistrust on his face immediately, and was not a lick surprised, given what she knew of him.

"That Zabrak. What's his deal?" Atton whispered, leaning close to keep the conversation between the two of them.

"He's fine," assured Meetra, her brow dipping momentarily as her eyes scanned his stance and drawn weapon.

Atton's frown deepened. "If he's Sith, I'll kill him. Just say the word." He spoke in a tone so low it was almost a hiss, and further stiffened his already aggressive posture.

Atton had been reluctant from the get go in allowing the man to accompany them though he was not comfortable enough with Meetra to voice this. Instead, he had stood idly by, grinding his teeth, as he watched Meetra grow flustered, before she agreed that an extra set of hands in their caper could only help. Still, Atton remained leery, and not least of all because the man was insistent that he and Meetra had once known one another, even though her memory was either impaired or she had some reason for pretending it was such.

Meetra tapped the back of her hand against Atton's chest, intent on showing her disapproval of his bellicosity. "Stop it. He's not Sith...I think." The two took another few paces together, and when the tension in Atton's shoulders and face and hands failed to dissipate, she rolled her eyes. "Can't you just enjoy being outside in the sunshine?"

"I'd rather be in a cantina enjoying a whiskey."

Meetra groaned, then spared another glimpse at Atton. "Put that thing away."

Atton hesitated before relenting and holstering his blaster. He slipped his hands into his pockets but kept his gaze firmly on Bao-Dur.

Meetra resumed smiling, the momentary irritation proving an unworthy adversary for the delight rolling through her. She gave her head a little shake and relished in the soft, cool swish of her hair against her neck. "Why would you assume that, anyway?"

"Seemed like you guys were pretty chummy during the war," grunted Atton.

Meetra laughed, finding Atton's response a poor explanation for his behaviour. "So? Do you think _I'm_ Sith, too, Atton Rand?"

"Force, I don't know." Deep in the pockets of his jacket, Atton balled his fists. His face soured further, and he made an effort to change the topic of conversation. "What's with you lately, anyway?"

"What?"

"Did you find the detachable nozzle in the shower or something?" asked Atton. He looked over and gave her a crooked grin that was nothing more than a deflection.

Meetra scowled. "Excuse me?"

"You're so friendly, lately. It's off-putting."

Meetra rolled her shoulders with indignation. "I just...I figure there's no harm in being on good terms with one another. I've spent almost every moment of the last few weeks with you."

Meetra internally sighed at her own pathetic deflection. She suspected trying to inform him that she had experienced some kind of vision in which he was clearly Jedi would accomplish little besides making him flee. Furthermore, trying to impress upon him that she believed she would serve as his guide in such a pursuit would seem nothing but arrogant, and incite indignant anger in him. She remained determined, however, and instead, had continued since that night to work clandestinely, showing him trust and kindness in hopes he would return it. She understood, perhaps, Atton's confusion over her sudden change towards him, yet still found herself on occasion offended by how unwelcome it often seemed to be.

His dour attitude was exhausting, but made slightly more palatable by lingering glances where she made mental inventory of his more attractive features. The slight gap between his front teeth, his long, slender fingers, the faint ring of green around his pupil that added depth to dark brown eyes. The slightly strange way he pronounced 'pazaak,' that seemed to suggest his origins were more gilded than he let on. The soft conversations about trashy entertainment and other similarly casual topics they shared each night in the flickering illumination of the holovision. The way that, though he often seemed to dislike her, he would place a hand against the small of back when they were pushing through crowds. Certainly, despite everything, her desire to assist him had not waned at all but only strengthened in the time since it was born, and for reasons Meetra knew and more that she yet did not, she wanted most dearly to share a friendship with him.

Atton gave a snort of laughter that was deliberately harsh and derisive. "Yeah, well, don't get too used to it. First opportunity I get, I'm out of here."

"Alright," replied Meetra, her voice stiff as she felt an unpleasantly hot tinge settle in around the shells of her ears. It seemed appropriate, to Meetra, that as her thoughts should travel to all she hoped for Atton that he would prick a sharp pin in her side such as that. In resolving to be stronger than his petty little blows, her awareness of them had somehow pitched, and forbidding herself to respond in kind was more suffocating than she expected. She clenched her teeth and stared ahead, the sunshine suddenly seeming more insulting than gratifying. Eventually, Meetra grew tired of the awkward silence. She thrust her hand out, pressing herself to keep her tone as kind as possible though she was aware her choice of words would most likely betray her. "You know, you don't _have_ to come with me every day."

"You ask me to," responded Atton, so quickly he almost truncated the end of her sentence. He saw Bao-Dur's head turn slightly, as though trying to eavesdrop, and realised that he had spoken far louder than intended. Atton grimaced, displeased by the entire conversation.

"So?" demanded Meetra. "I ask in case you want to, not because I need you to. You can say no. I'm not going to force you."

"Bet you wou-"

"Pun _not _intended, thank you," hissed Meetra, bristling at Atton's mordacity. To Meetra's surprise, as she admonished herself for losing her temper, she found her mind drifting back to the Code. She'd never put a great deal of stock in the Code, nor did she find it comforting now. It did, however, remind her again of her promise, and she took a deep, calming breath. "If you're implying that I would try to persuade you with the Force, then don't. I wouldn't. If I can't persuade you with conventional means, then I don't wish to at all," she amended, adopting a far more affable tone.

Atton rolled his eyes, giving a sigh drenched in frustration. "I was kidding. You're reading too much into that," he said, though it was a lie.

"I'm just saying."

"Yeah, well. Don't flatter yourself, Surik. I come with you because there's nothing to do in the apartment," said Atton, a sulky quality in his voice.

"You could hang out at the cantina. Enjoy a whiskey," cooed Meetra.

"Yeah, I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm fresh out of credits, sweetheart." Atton looked at Meetra and gave her a sarcastic, toothy smile.

Meetra's feet paused and Atton's along with them. She studied his face, and he hers, as Bao-Dur and Kreia continued to walk ahead of them, unaware that they had stopped. She smiled, and was pleased when Atton's expression softened into something slightly more genuine in response. It wasn't intentional on his part, but he was secretly relieved to see the argument begin to dissolve, though he could not fathom why.

"Now you're just making excuses," said Meetra, resuming her pace. "You don't mind coming along, do you?" she asked, striking a balance between friendly and gloating that sat well with Atton.

"Look," said Atton, taking a few quick bounds to catch up with her before falling back in step, "Just because sometimes I help you with all these stupid errands you get stuck with, doesn't mean I want to follow you around forever, okay?"

Meetra shrugged. Her eyes narrowed, as her mouth revealed the smug satisfaction she felt at the empty nature of his words. "Okay, Atton."

"What does that mean?"

"Nothing," said Meetra, casually lifting her palm skywards. "I just said okay."

Atton kept walking, but turned his body towards her, finally losing interest in observing Bao-Dur's horned scalp and instead focusing his attention fully on Meetra. "No, you said 'Okay, Atton.'"

Amusement rippled up through Meetra's chest, knocking free any irritation and manifesting itself in a laugh that was barely more than an exhale. "I'm sorry. I thought reading way too much into things was _my _job?"

Atton grimaced, and tried but failed to find a response, so simply fell quiet once more. The silence between them was not entirely uncomfortable, though neither was sure if it was because they were growing used to one another's company, or because they were growing used to the way their conversations often awkwardly petered out. In an attempt to occupy his twitchy hands and still his racing mind, Atton lit a cigarette. He half expected a lecture from Meetra about the danger such a thing posed to his health, for nary had he met a Jedi who could resist, but she only continued to stride alongside him, looking joyful and bright. With her suitably distracted, he took the chance to view her face and before he had a chance to stay his tongue, he found himself resuming their conversation.

"You're very calm."

Meetra lips parted, as she pulled herself back. She raised an eyebrow in Atton's direction. "Huh?"

He took his time to respond, opting instead to take a long drag from his cigarette, and letting the smoke linger and stir in his chest a moment longer before exhaling it in a long, billowy stream. "Just...You're a lot calmer than you were on Peragus when I first met you."

Though she kept her thoughts stifled, Meetra marked down Atton's comment as a victory, and keen to encourage his propitiousness, she deliberately kept her voice soft and her words non-confrontational. "I feel a lot calmer."

"You look...happy. It's almost streaming off you," he said, seemingly unable to stop himself.

"I am happy."

The gentle smile that crawled over Meetra's face as she spoke made a strange tug in Atton's chest. Around her crown was a halo of stray hair made golden by the sunlight and there was something in the colour of her lips and her eyes, the way the dark circles under her eyes had depleted since she had begun to sleep again and the honeyed tone of her voice that made him completely forget himself. The memory of the smooth, firm skin of her back as he had felt it two weeks prior returned, and like a yolk from the white, cleanly separated itself from its association with the flood of unpleasant dreams about his mother and sister that had plagued him that night. A feeling came over him that was so pleasant, he felt an immediate urge to crush it with his fist.

"Well, whatever," he countered, returning to his usual pugnacious tone. He took another drag. "I'm just saying, it's a nice counterbalance to the old witch." He ashed the cigarette as he exhaled, momentarily looking in Kreia's direction, almost daring her to respond, but she seemed oblivious so Atton's vision wandered back to Meetra.

"I thought it was off putting," japed Meetra, sensing Atton's vexation and allowing the conversation to slide back to the superficial back and forth with which he was most comfortable.

"Shut up, Surik," said Atton, waving his empty hand at her.

Meetra allowed herself a smug smile, and Atton rolled his eyes before following suit.

"You know. You really ought to stop calling her that."

Atton gave a wry laugh. "And why's that?"

Meetra side stepped, closing the distance between the two of them so they were shoulder to shoulder. Without breaking her stride, she stretched up so Atton could hear her whisper, "Because I get the feeling she could probably rip us both in half without breaking a sweat."

Atton nodded in agreement, amused by Meetra's mischievous expression. "Point taken."

Meetra laughed and widened the gap between them once more. She resumed her earlier stance, with a walk so blithe and jaunty it was close to bouncing and her chin raised slightly, face angled towards the sun. They traversed a while longer, and eventually came upon a beach of sorts and stopped to rest. Atton broke away from the others, finding a sandy place to sit, his wrists resting on his knees. In the corner of his eye, he spied Meetra making discussion with the Zabrak, and he expected solitude. His head was full, much more so than it had been in years, but he had no interest in sifting through its contents for the time being. His eyes scanned the horizon and the long line of Force pillars that formed the protective bubble that was the Restoration Zone. Sometimes, such as now, though Atton cared none for the outdoors or nature, he missed the moving vistas of Alderaan. Of all the places he'd been, it was his home that spoke the deepest to him, that had the most transfixing beauty. Though Meetra seemed to be enjoying herself, to Atton Telos, even after the tireless work of the Ithorians, was nothing but ugly and bland.

"Atton," came Meetra's voice, suddenly, as she sat in the sand beside him.

Atton, frustrated that whatever years-old clamp that had kept his memories from bothering him seemed to be growing rusted and withered, was thankful for the intrusion, and looked at Meetra with expectation. "What?"

Meetra paused and Atton's gratefulness dissipated, as he saw the look on her face and began to worry she had something serious to discuss.

She looked square at him, dipping her chin and raising an eyebrow. "What was that about a detachable shower nozzle?"

"Fracking hell, Surik," whispered Atton, his face splitting into a smile and laughter pushing up and out of his throat before he had chance to stop it. "You're...You're something, you know that?"


	47. Memory walk

_Massive thanks to L van Am for her fantastic beta work! She is wonderful, and deserves praise heaped upon her. _

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**Chapter 47**

_**Fear is a noose that binds until it strangles.**_

Atton shut his mouth, but his paranoid ranting hung rancid in the gelid air, and he had to internally kick himself for being so forthcoming. He sneaked a glance at Kreia, his vision obscured for the third time in only a month by the golden haze of a Force cage. His fingers were stiff with cold, so he jammed his hands in his pockets and balled his fists. An impromptu incarceration in some clandestine Jedi academy, somewhere deep below the surface of Telos, was bad enough for Atton, but having accidentally fallen into a conversation with his most hated of travel companions was almost more than he could stand. If there was ever moment when he desperately wished to see Meetra again, it was this one. A minute passed, and he hoped that, perhaps, Kreia had simply grown bored and abandoned their discussion. Indeed, it seemed she would remain silent, but just as he closed his eyes to conjure surroundings more comforting and tropical, she spoke again.

"What is it about this place that causes you such fear?"

Atton grit his teeth. "What do you mean? We're in the middle of a bunch of Jedi. You know how they are."

"No, I do not. Not in the way you seem to."

Atton paused, unwilling to respond. He waited, searching for a deflection. He felt the answer should be obvious to her of all people, for it was the workings of her and the rest of the Revanchist that had cultivated his hate of Jedi in the beginning. He felt something warm trace the shell of his ear. It was feathery and light, like only the very tip of a finger, and before he had a chance to realise what was happening, it snaked down his ear canal and into his head. He tried to think, tried to struggle against it, but no amount of pazaak or lust or anger could stand against this warm, confusing fog. It seeped effortlessly, and flooded every groove and channel in his brain. And then he heard her voice.

_What do you know, Atton? What has our time apart shown you?_

_What has made you fear the Jedi, rather than blindly hate them?_

_The Exile is suitably occupied. Finally, we have a moment alone, Atton, and you will answer my questions._

_I will not lie, I took you for dead all these years. But it would seem even a fool can sometimes fool others. We found your ship, abandoned, the very same day a slaughtered Padawan, only nineteen, was found in a bathtub in a hotel several blocks away. And curiously, your weapons, bearing your unique identification, were in the room with her, but you were not. I did wonder what became of you, but not for long. Through various channels, it was revealed that a Jedi-owned vessel, assigned to your sister, was discovered by a trawler. It was not abandoned like yours had been, but rather was a burnt-out, mangled wreck, crashed in the middle of a desert on some far off planet. Two bodies were found, charred practically beyond recognition. A woman and a man. It seemed obvious what had happened. You and your sister were buried in shallow, sandy graves by this planet's local government, and that was the end of both of you. In truth, I was pleased to be rid of you. But now here you are, perfectly alive and posing a threat to my plans. You clearly faked your death; how intriguing that we should share something in common. But how did you do it, Atton? You are virtually unrecognisable now; I never thought highly of you, but you reek of depravity and all kinds of indignities, now. You are drenched in fear. Why would you fear any Jedi? You know how to kill them, do you not? You were good at it, were you not? What happened to you that night? How did this all come to be? You do not truly know, do you? We have time, Atton._

_Let me see. Do not struggle. I will find what I want._

"What are you doing?"

_I should ask you the same. What memories will you allow me to see? Your mouth is full of hot, dry sand. You want to die; you assume that if you have not already, you will soon. It would appear that of all the times in your life you crashed the vessels you have piloted, that time was intentional. A man, a moisture farmer, pulls your broken body from the wreckage. He provides you with medical treatment. And when he begins to ask questions, you panic. You kill him. You take his clothes and dress him in yours, and throw his limp form into the fire. I understand, now. It is this man, this stranger, who is buried beside your sister._

_But that is not enough, Atton. That is not what I want to know._

_The memory you have placed before that one is incongruous. There is something missing. This is where you memory stops: her hair is wrapped around your fingers and her jaw is broken. That is where you slammed the door, but I will open it, for you must see what you did to understand. This is what happens between a handful of hair and a mouthful of sand._

_You beat this woman until her face is nigh unrecognisable. She is in tremendous pain; it is with sheer force of will she pushes you to the ground. You have fractured many small bones in her face. You have torn her lip, her ear. Still clinging to your hands are long dark strands that you ripped from her scalp. You are so frantic to silence her, so feverishly enraged that you do not notice it, but this is the moment where she admits defeat. You both see one another for what you truly are, and you both give up. You stop trying to stop yourself, she stops trying to stop you. She realises you are so deeply broken that she can not fix you. She was a Jedi, was she not, Atton? Did you never wonder why she did not fight back? You shattered every belief she had in that moment, and she could not go on. But she crawls atop you, regardless. Why does she do this? She does not think you can be saved. She is close to death, already. She presses her face to yours and you see the most brilliant, piercing light. It is so bright it could blind a man. She uses her last ounce of strength not to heal herself, not to hold you back, but to show you who you are. Did you deserve that, Atton? I doubt it._

_But still, she is alive, and you are alive, and this ship remains in space. So what then?_

"Get out of my head."

_No, let us keep going, Atton. Let us follow this current until we find its source; let us pull this tiny thread until we unravel your lies._

_Oh. I see._

_There is a knife. The Knife. Its blade is one and the same as its handle. One smooth, rigid piece of metal, expertly forged, designed to slice meat and fruit and vegetables, not the face of young women, but you were always good at improvising, weren't you? It is not close to you. How did it get to you?_

_It sits atop a counter, far away in the ship's galley, and it rolls. Just once, from one side to the other._

_You don't even know that you've done it._

_You beg. You beg like the useless, pathetic dog that you are. And the Force listens. The Knife rolls a second time, a third, a fourth. You don't even know what you're doing. Are you surprised? It is not so unusual. You have accessed the power of the Force many times in your life, but it was most evident here. The Knife slides and falls to the floor. You are distracted by this useless Jedi; her mind speaks over yours but when she stops to take a breath, the Knife bows to your will again. It is a struggle, as both you and the Knife try to close the distance between you, ceaseless until it finds its way to your hand. She did not expect that. Her injuries are so extensive, and she is focusing so narrowly that she does not know you are now armed. But the pain of what she is showing you, the wall of noise, it ceases in an instant, when you weave the Knife through her flank and she loses her concentration. But you do not stop there, do you, Atton? You want her dead. You cannot tolerate her existence a second longer. When it ends, you don't even realise just how long ago her heart stopped beating._

_Did you think she was alive the whole time, Atton? She was not. Take comfort in that, if you are desperate enough. She died when the blade slid through her eye, right into her precious brain. Because you don't remember, I will let you know that that was before you cut her throat. It was before you stabbed her chest until there was a gaping hole, her lung and ribs exposed. It was before you drove the Knife again and again into her face, until there was little left but sodden flaps of flesh. Did you feel the sting, Atton, when your hand was so soaked in blood that the blade slipped and slashed through your palm? Let us see. No. You did not notice at all. Your fury stretches and grows, until it can give no longer and snaps like a rubber band. It is over. She is dead, and you have mutilated her body so badly that there is no one that could identify it by sight alone, now. You cradle this corpse, you speak to it, mutter to it, cry over it. You run your hands over the small part of her scalp that remained intact, not through but over the hair, for it is so matted with drying, sticky blood that it is a mere clump, rather than the soft strands it had been the day before._

"Stop. Please. St…Stop…"

_Why? Does this hurt you, Atton? These memories are so deeply buried beneath denial, that I imagine this feels like the first time you are witnessing all of this. The first time you have seen these sights, and heard these sounds. The first time your nose has crinkled as the pungent, metallic scent of blood overwhelms you. It does hurt you. And it should._

_Feel the hours pass._

_Feel each moment drip by again, Atton._

_Face what you have done._

_And when you can sit no longer, stand. Feel your legs, the muscles within them gelatinous and unsteady, let them carry you to the galley. Watch yourself eat, just as she requested. Watch, as the cut across your palm weeps, and your blood slides down the length of your spoon, a drop falling from its neck and mingling with the bland whiteness of the gruel in your bowl. Look at it, and be reminded of what was once the Exile's face. Red on white. And realise you have killed your sister._

_See it for all that it is. See it for all that it was._

_You do not care for me, do you, Atton? Do you blame me? Yes. Yes, let's have a closer look. You think that it is my fault. You think you did it because I told you to, because you were afraid of me, because you saw no other option. But that isn't true, is it, Atton? You killed her because you looked at all she truly was, and you wanted her dead. You murdered her. You were not completing a task. You were not performing your duty. You simply murdered her._

"Ah, and there is its heart."

_Stop squirming, Atton. Still you deny it! You are a complex being, more so than I expected, but, it would seem, utterly incapable of shouldering blame. Regardless, I still do not understand your fear. It is not me, and it is not the building in which we dwell. Then, what? And what is it, this black wriggling thing within you that writhes like a worm when the soil that covers it is brushed aside? What it is? What have I exposed? Guilt. Shame. Intriguing. You surprise me, Atton. I did not see it before. You would die just to hide this from the Exile, wouldn't you? But why?_

"You feelings are a powerful shield indeed. Do not worry, 'Atton,' if she is Jedi, she will forgive. And if she is not, she will not care."

"Please. You can't tell her. I'm asking – I'm begging you. I don't want her to -"

"Think less of you? I should hardly think that is possible."

_Still, Atton, what do you care, for the Exile's opinion? I have seen the way you look at her when her face is turned away. You want her dead, too. And yet there's lust – indignant, vicious, dichotomous lust. You wish to make her eyes light up with desire as desperately as you wish to make the light leave them. But, it is not enough to find her pretty, is it? That is not enough to save her. Not enough to redeem her. You blame her, just as you do me. So what does it matter what she thinks of you? Ah. What is this? A-ha. It is not about her opinion, but yours. It is your greatest desire that all knowledge of that event is scrubbed beyond recognition. You do not want it to exist in any minds beyond yours, where you cannot touch it, where you cannot scrape away its face like you scraped away hers. That is why you do not wish the Exile to know. That is why you are afraid; for any Jedi could pluck these things from your head just as I have done._

"Still, there is no shame in what you ask. We all wage war with the past. And it leaves its scars. I will not speak of yours, Atton, but there is a price for such things. There are those who wage war, and those who follow them. You are a crude thing, murderer, but you have your uses. You know how important this woman we travel with is – even one such as you can feel it."

_And that is why you will keep my secret, Atton, to stop your own sordid past from seeping any further into your future. Your shame will be the yoke that binds you to her. You will obey her, now. You will act on her orders. And you will do nothing to harm Meetra Surik. If you do, murderer, I will make even your most squalid and horrifying of memories seem pleasant._

"Wipe the fear from your mind. You will not find blind obedience a difficult master. You chose it once. You will learn to embrace it again. I feel you have crossed our path for a reason; perhaps even you, at the right moment, may be able to turn aside disaster. If so, your potential is not yet spent."

And with that, the spindled fingers of Kreia's Force retreated, and Atton felt control return to his limbs and his tongue and his mind. His addled brain ground against the interior of his skull as he struggled to make sense of what she had shown him. His knees buckled and his tailbone hit the metal strip at the back of the cage as he dragged his hand downwards over his face, wiping away the cold sweat that clung to his brow. As he did so, he noticed something, something for which he had never spared much consideration before that moment. He pulled his hand away and looked at it. He saw, running across his palm, a knotted, uneven scar. He saw it, and could not deny, as he had for years, where it had come from. Whatever Kreia had done, he couldn't find a way to ignore it. He could not find a way to block it out. He looked at her, and though he could not see into her eyes, he knew that not genuine commitment, but fear pushed the words from his mouth. He swallowed hard.

"Fine. I'll be your pawn. But I still think you've got the wrong man," he stammered, the lingering pain from Kreia's intrusion still evident in his voice.

"Perhaps," sneered Kreia, a smug smile creeping over her face. "But someone has to fly the ship. Our path brought us here for a reason... and now I know why. The past is here, and it must be met before the future can be set in motion. Yes."

Atton's mind, still in a precarious state from Kreia's poking and prodding, continued to slosh back and forth in his skull. "More Jedi speak. Care to explain?" he spat, rapidly losing patience with their conversation.

"No. I have wasted enough time with you."

Atton almost snarled, but Kreia simply turned away then, facing the door as though expecting Meetra to walk through it at any moment. Her hand flicked up at her side in a single swift motion, and before Atton could even understand what was going on, his face hit the floor and he felt his consciousness being dragged under and crushed by a tremendous weight.

"Sleep, murderer, and be silent. I need no distractions."


	48. One exile to another

_A/N: Huge thanks to the lovely L van Am for her wonderful beta work! And many more thanks and all the love in the world to Girl-Chama who wrote the new summary! And, of course, an extra big special thank you to everyone that's left reviews and also all you Tumblr users who have been giving me kind of words of love and encouragement of late! I'm actually super surprised by how many of you read and it warms my heart, it does ;)_

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**Chapter Forty-Eight**

_**A life of deceit is one of unmitigated torture – a living hell, which should deserve our pity for the unhappy beings who submit to it.**_

Meetra ran her finger tips over her sweaty palms. Finally, the tremble in her hands had subsided. While talking to Atris, she had been able to do naught to stop herself from shaking, a product of the barely bridled rage in her chest. Atris had sensed it, and accused Meetra of remaining bitter over her trial and subsequent exile. Meetra had not disputed this, but Atris was wrong. That was not the cause of the anger that had made Meetra's shoulders stiff and knuckles white as the two women stood face to face. Rather, the culprit was the mark that Atris had left upon her. That silvery pink twisted smile of fate that stretched across her hip made her feel more damaged than even losing the Force had. It no longer hurt in any physical way, but the implications of its presence burned away at Meetra with an execrable heat, just as painful and vivid as the day it occurred. Each year her desire to be a mother grew closer to a need so consuming that it made her sick. She had thought before now that growing older was bringing her to terms with her lot, but seeing Atris felt like a strike across her cheek and returned memories made of only the most bitter bile. The longer Atris had spoken, the more clouded Meetra's mind had become with dark thoughts, until eventually her instincts told her little else but to cleave away all Atris held dear and leave her just as broken and empty as she had Meetra.

She knew, logically, that Atris did not deserve this rancor, for it was not Atris alone who had perceived Meetra as a threat the day she returned to the Order. Indeed, Meetra had done little to calm them, instead allowing her own petulant temper to raise her weapon. None of the Order could have known that Meetra was nigh defenseless, for she had not disclosed what Malachor had done to her, and Atris could not have known the extent of the damage she would render when she acted. But even the kindest hearts know little of logic, and Meetra's was no exception. She considered it, but she neither could nor wanted to forgive Atris. Still, even if there was peace to be found in revenge, she knew Atris would surely best her if she tried. All Meetra could do was stay her hand and throw herself upon the febrile tide of fury within her to arrest its ceaseless thrashing.

This restraint was tiresome, and she could not help but feel relieved when Atris had instructed her to leave Telos and she had stormed from Atris' meditation chamber without waiting to hear another word. Meetra walked, now, through the empty academy, her boots making heavy footsteps that bounced and echoed. Like Peragus and Telos before it, the structure was yet another endless maze of grey, and she found herself lost more than once while she searched for her imprisoned companions.

She had spoken briefly with one of Atris' handmaidens as she searched. The girl, tall and pale, had seemed intent on discussing Atton, of all topics, but Meetra was barely of a mind to register it. She cared not if Atton had Echani training and had asserted that she did not find it particularly unusual despite the girl's insistence. But now the girl was gone, and Meetra was alone. In solitude, she ventured to wonder if perhaps she had been unwilling to discuss the matter because the Echani reminded her of nothing but Arren Kae. Kae had been particularly enamoured by them, by their customs, their culture. She had even borne a child by an Enchani General; something that had seen her exiled just as Meetra had been, rare a punishment though it was.

For Meetra, Kae's death was near as an unpleasant thought as her own inability to bear children. They had been dear to one another – Kae was, perhaps, as close to a mother as Meetra ever had. She had nurtured Meetra, taught her, and helped her to understand the Force in a way no others, bar Revan, ever had. But in return, Meetra had taken Kae's teachings and twisted, perverted, corrupted them, then made a selfish decision that ultimately killed Kae. In Meetra's mind, she had betrayed Kae, in every way she possibly could have, and it was the tip of that guilt, she knew, that had made her brusque with this girl and the information she had tried to share. Meetra had run blame's blade across herself so many times that the edge grew blunt, but she refused to take to it with a whetstone now, for doing so had no practical application. It was a heavier burden than she could bear, and it would not help her in her journey ahead. So she pushed thoughts of Arren Kae from her mind, and the handmaiden's suspicions about Atton with it, and as she did, she rounded a corner, and came upon two figures that were growing more familiar by the day. Both were held in Force cages, but while Kreia was meditating, her expression limpid, Atton was slumped, unconscious, in the bottom of his cage. She could not pinpoint why, exactly, but a ripple of panic scurried up Meetra's spine when she saw the way he was indisposed.

She took half a step forwards, then realised there was little she could do with the cage's field still active. She glanced around the room, looking for the cages' control panel, and spied Bao-Dur lying unrestrained on a small cot nearby. She was less concerned for him, having already been assured he had been given medical attention. She knew that Atton was most likely fine, but there was a distress inside her, the magnitude of which did not match the circumstances. She found the panel and let her eyes sweep over it, trying to determine what needed to be done to shut down the field.

"You have returned."

Meetra's lip involuntarily twitched at the sound, for she had no desire to speak with Kreia at that moment, and had hoped she would be deep enough in her meditation to remain relatively unaware of Meetra's presence. She gave only a terse, affirmative hum in return.

"Did you find what you came for?"

Meetra frowned, then exhaled sharply, attempting to calm herself. "Such a question implies that we came here on purpose."

"You were not led here by mere chance," mused Kreia.

Meetra grunted and felt that was response enough. Distracted, she made a wrong press as she tried to disable the fields, and the small screen of the panel flashed red and shrieked at her to show its disapproval. This only irritated her further, and she bit down on the soft interior of her cheek as her concentration wavered.

"That woman – the one that resides here. She did something to you, once, that still hangs upon your head." Kreia paused. She ran a long thread of her Force through figurative fingers, then fed it into Meetra's ear. "What was it?"

Meetra felt the intrusion immediately and reflexively bit down harder. Kreia did this often, starting from the moment they had met on Peragus. She was unapologetic, and did it with an insouciance that Meetra almost found offensive, but she tolerated the violation, not wishing to spurn the one person that seemed to understand her wound. Right then, however, her temper was fragile, and her head snapped in Kreia's direction, her eyes glinting with a dark anger. "Stay out of my head, or I'll lop off yours."

"Very well," relented Kreia, withdrawing her influence with only a moment of hesitation.

Meetra looked back to the panel, and Kreia was glad of it, for there was something in Meetra's tone that upset her, and she was certain that even if the hood of her robe hid it, her posture did not. It was impossible, of course, for Meetra to know the way her words cut into what withered husk was left of Kreia's heart. She had, that morning, seen her own daughter, a daughter with whom she shared her face and her blood, and felt nothing. Yet now, she sensed in Meetra something grave, and only the very edge of that pain catching the light made Kreia ache for Meetra just as deeply as Meetra ached for herself. She would stop at little to manipulate and steer Meetra; indeed, she had endeavoured to do so during every encounter the two had ever shared, even from their first meeting when Meetra was a small girl, barely able to tie her own shoes. But it had always seemed a kind of love to Kreia, as though she was only pushing Meetra to meet her potential. In a way, Kreia's actions were almost innocent; they were those of a hovering mother who thought she knew better. And right now, she wanted to know, most sorely and genuinely, in what way Atris had wronged Meetra that was so different to the way every other Jedi had wronged her. Nearly a year would pass before Kreia had an opportunity to engineer the situation, but she knew then, in one way or another, she would orchestrate an opportunity for Meetra to exact revenge for whatever unspoken crime Atris had committed, if she so wished. For now, though, Kreia could only keep her figure stiff and her responses apathetic, lest she arouse Meetra's suspicion any further than she already had. She was certain that if Meetra reached down inside herself, she would know without a doubt who Kreia truly was, just as Atton did, but Kreia could not allow that, for the desperate veil of denial obscuring Meetra's vision was all that was keeping the delicate alliance between the two intact.

Kreia watched Meetra. She watched the frantic way Meetra jammed at the controls. Meetra's panic slid across the floor, radiating from her, so strongly Kreia could not help but feel it. She thought it a strange contrast to the first time Meetra had attempted to free Atton from similar confines. Kreia had watched, then, too, though Meetra had not known it. She noted the change in Meetra's reaction, and it took little effort to surmise that Meetra had developed feelings for the man in the short time that had passed between then and now. The moment Meetra's fiddling resulted in the tell-tale electric groan of the fields shutting down, she crossed the room and busied herself at Atton's side. Kreia watched her kneel, watched her take Atton's face in her hands. She was not who she once was, Kreia silently noted. There was a tenderness in her touch that had never been there before, and while her temper remained as vile as it had always been, she seemed to have a more vested interest in taming it, now. Meetra spoke Atton's name, clearly attempting to shake loose the last vestiges of rage that clung to her voice.

Atton stirred, his disorientation plain in his pathetic expression. Kreia saw him as little else than a coward, a man who allowed his life to wash over him with a defeat that was almost sickening, and as clear as his discomfort was, she could not feel sympathy for him. He regained his bearings, clearly becoming aware that the soft hands on his face were Meetra's, and he pushed her away with a sneer. Kreia pondered for a fleeting moment if he would tell Meetra what had transpired between them. She knew, though, that he would not, for he did not trust her any more than he did Kreia. When Kreia had peered inside his head, she had seen many things, though it was not necessary to use all of them to break him. Forcing him to relive the brutal murder of his sister had been enough, but she was intrigued to find that Atton and Meetra had met before – a horrid encounter that lingered at the top of Atton's memory. Kreia knew that his recollection of that young girl - face white, eyes red and heart black - was enough to stop Atton from ever fully trusting Meetra, and for that, Kreia felt relieved. She looked at Meetra, as the girl tried to hide the hurt in her face as Atton responded to her tender concern with borderline disgust, and felt a strange ache. No, Kreia had not called his bluff; she had not been delivering empty threats. She saw, before either of them could, what would develop between them, and felt that no man, no dalliance or tryst, nothing of the sort was good enough for Meetra, and especially not if it involved Atton Rand. Whether he realised it or not, it was a simple truth that Kreia repeated to herself as she watched the two, that should he ever lay a finger on her, physically or metaphorically, and leave a mark that made Meetra ashamed, Kreia would hurt him in ways he never had been before.


	49. Handshake

_Huuuuge thanks as always to L van Am for her fantastic beta work!_

_This is a sister chapter to twenty-eight and forty-two, and thus I must dedicate it to the precious flashbanggrenade, on account of the gorgeous drawing she made inspired by the latter. She's wonderful and talented and kind and I cannot thank her enough. There is a link in my profile if you would like to go shower her with praise (you should!)._

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**Chapter Forty-Nine**

_**Seeking to forget makes exile all the longer; the secret of redemption lies in remembrance.**_

As the sun edged closer to the horizon, it turned the clouded sky and sea of snow into a blaze of claret and saffron. It was a vista that Meetra would normally have observed intently, but while her gaze was fixed firmly forwards, her eyes were out of focus and her mind was miles away. Behind her, the sunset stretched into inky blue night, and from its darkness, she heard a faint, rhythmic crunching. Instinctively, she knew the sound to be Atton's heavy boots falling on the snow, but she did not turn to face him. He stopped beside her, but still she stared resolutely, too preoccupied to converse with him. Atton's cheeks were quickly drained of their colour and warmth by the frigid Telosian air, and the nip was sharp enough that after a moment he folded his arms, tucking his hands up close to his sides. His intentions in coming out here had been clear – he simply wanted her to return to the _Ebon Hawk_ so they could finally leave Telos. However, now that he was standing next to her, he found the silence almost suffocating and did not know how to begin speaking with her. He suspected she was upset over having watched the holovid of her trial; she had, after all, been reluctant to view it at all, and though the recording itself was short, she had walked out before it even finished. He didn't care to comfort her though, and even if he had, he was too absorbed by his own problems.

He couldn't seem to find a single moment of respite from the nausea-inducing horrors Kreia had shown him while he was stuck in that cage. They were his memories, he knew, but never had they been so sharp and so accurate; never had the milky film of denial been wiped so thoroughly from his eyes. After finally stepping back on the _Ebon Hawk_, he had ransacked the galley looking for something to distract himself, and found a half-empty bottle of Corellian whiskey. Downing a good portion of what was left had not helped. Rather, it had only made him feel sicker and he felt uncomfortably close to emptying the contents of his stomach over his shoes. Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw Delta. The durasteel floor of the_ Ebon Hawk_ was the floor she died on. The Telosian snow was the Alderaanian winter they had played in as children. His hands were simultaneously the tiny hands that had gingerly touched her newborn cheek, and strong hands, fingers wrapped around the hilt of a knife, soaked in her blood. He looked at Meetra and studied her profile, and just as she turned to meet his eyes, he looked away.

"Almost left without you," he said, finally.

Meetra held her hand out and up, manoeuvering it to catch an errant snowflake in her palm. "Sorry." She closed her hand, then hid her fists in her pockets, her arms clasped close to her sides. "I suppose you're eager to get home. I mean, I don't expect you to stay, if you don't want to. So, uh. We can go... wherever that is, first, if you want."

Atton gave a cynical, soundless laugh. There were so many things wrong with her suggestion, he didn't know where to start. Kreia's threats were one thing, though he'd outrun her before. He had no home left – not Nar Shaddaa, for he never had made good on his rent and his apartment and its contents were surely gone by now; and not Alderaan, either, for he had only his brother left alive, now, and he was absolutely certain Edus considered him a brother no longer. He had no anchor, and no port; there was nothing, material or emotional, that tied him anywhere. And what he wanted was another enigma entirely. He felt rather like his head had been crushed in a vise, which was fair penance, he supposed, when he remembered another dark night many years ago. But something had cracked, and a hole he had once desperately patched wept painful memories, and he could not seem to find a way to stem their flow again. He felt, for the time being at least, that returning to the relative solitude his life had been before meeting Meetra was something more frightful and dangerous than staying with her.

"Atton?"

He let his mouth fall open, realising he had dwelt on the decision longer than intended. "No, I mean. I can help you out, for a while. Someone needs to fly the ship, right?"

Meetra gave no response beyond a curt nod. It was not an intentional snub, so much as she couldn't seem to find any words with which to build a better reply. Her anger had returned in a fresh, biting wave while watching the recording of her trial. It pained her to see, after so long, that it was not paranoia but now undeniably evident that the Order had made their decision before she'd even set foot on Dantooine. It had been a trap, and she had never had a chance. Every time she tried to brush away this rage, she remembered waking in Khoonda, reeking of kolto, with a full Jedi guard bearing down on her. They had dressed her in Padawan robes, then forced her to make her braid again after years without it. Something hot and uncomfortable itched in her throat as she remembered the feel of Vrook's hand against her neck, and heard as an echo in her mind her own pathetic yelp, as he tore the braid clean from her scalp following her trial.

She had left the _Ebon Hawk_ because she simply could not watch the rest of the recording. She could not stand to witness herself carve that slash through the centre stone with the same weapon Atris had just used to threaten her. She could not revisit the betrayal of realising her lightsaber had been returned to her before her trial so she could be further demeaned by being forced to surrender it. She glanced at Atton, and processed his comment, again. In truth, she felt relieved he was staying, though she suspected Kreia had something to do with it. She considered, briefly, allowing the turmoil within her to roll out over her tongue, in hopes that perhaps Atton could provide whatever it was she needed. But she dared not risk her pride or his comfort, and instead only stared ahead, her eyes still and empty.

"Unless you'd rather I didn't," added Atton, after enduring a moment of Meetra's silence.

Meetra hummed and turned towards him. "Sorry – I..." She stopped and shrugged. "What happened before?"

Atton knew immediately what she was referring to, but had no desire to speak of it. He looked down, and began to pat at the pockets of his jacket, searching for his cigarette case. "When?"

"When I was with Atris. What did Kreia do to you?" she pressed.

"Oh – that." He pulled the silver case from his pocket, still feigning distraction as he withdrew a cigarette. "Nothing, I was just... just nodded off. No big deal."

Meetra sighed, giving her head a brusque shake as she turned away once more. "Fine. Just so you know, though, I'm not okay with it."

"With me sleeping? I'll try to refrain in future," drawled Atton, taking a long draw from his cigarette before adding, "Princess."

Meetra sighed, making no effort to hide her disappointment at Atton's deflection. "You really don't like me, do you?" she asked after a pause, in a small voice, that was weaker and more vulnerable than any she had used in Atton's presence before.

He could not help but feel surprised at such a pathetic question. He wanted to tell her that she was quite right, that he didn't, because he could still remember who she had once been, and still he loathed that girl. The words, however, would not come, and something most foreign and unwelcome unfurled in his chest at the thought that he had hurt her feelings. "I never said that," he offered, eventually.

Meetra almost laughed, her temporary amusement manifesting in little more than a forceful exhale. "You didn't need to." She raised her foot to kick the snow, but stopped and simply tapped her toe against the ground a few times instead. "Alright. Well. Let's go, then."

In the corner of his eye, Atton spied her turn to walk away, and he closed his eyes in frustration, because he couldn't stop himself from objecting. "Surik. Listen."

Meetra faltered, glancing back at him. "What?"

"Thanks," he muttered, concentrating again on what was left of his cigarette.

"Yeah," she replied, her voice soft. She took another step, back towards the fortress before clenching her fists, trying to summon courage, though she wasn't entirely sure why she needed it. "Atton?"

"Something up?"

"You never shook my hand."

Atton looked at her now, a frown born of confusion pushing down his brow.

"Our... When we met. You never shook my hand," she said, gesturing towards him, hoping he would remember. "'I'd shake your hand but the field only causes mild electrical burns,'" she continued, failing so miserably to emulate his voice that Atton couldn't help but laugh, despite all the horrid thoughts in which his mind remained steeped.

"Oh, that," he replied, exchanging a grin with her.

"Yeah, so," she said, extending her hand to him, "Friends?"

Atton's gaze deviated between her hand and her face, and for the first time, in a very long time, he saw hope.

In their lives, each had experienced a moment where they had become malleable clay, shaped and bent under the irrevocable, powerful fist of fate. A moment where everything they were and knew and understood had been changed or destroyed.

Atton, his sister's body in his arms, turning as cold and rigid as the metal he sat upon, his sleeves and hands dripping with blood. Meetra, her face in the dirt, her innards spilling from the weeping wound across her hip, as soft and spongy as the slick grass where she had collapsed.

Though two different experiences, separated by time and distance, both were more similar than either could know, for it was then that each laid the first stones of the lonely wall that is solitude. It was the persistent memory of those moments that deafened them, and compelled them to keep building, until each had inadvertently trapped themselves. It was then when neither could conceive of such a time when light would ever shine on their paths again. But fate had intervened, once more, as it often does, and allowed the twain to hear one another's plaintive cries. After what felt like a lifetime of silence, it was enough to compel each of them to stop building, and try instead to escape. For Meetra, it was the night she met Mission Vao and saw, truly, all that Atton could be, and through it, all she could be, too.

For Atton, it was now, in the snow, looking at Meetra, thin flakes of ice in her hair, an optimistic smile on her face and her hand outstretched, awaiting his. Atton would one day tell Meetra that from the first moment he saw her, he loved her. That he wanted to protect her. Though he would neglect to mention it, he would not be referring to when she walked through those doors on Peragus, but rather this moment. He heard the sorrowed puler of her heart; not so much a whisper as a strangled sound, weakened not by reservation but by pain and exhaustion. Quiet though it was, he heard it. It was a persistent fingernail, scratching and picking at the carefully constructed shroud of hate and blame he had built around her to obscure her face. And just as she had seen his potential, here, for the first time, he saw hers. He finally understood that he needed forgiveness; he needed to forgive Meetra for what she had done to Rhyssa Sularen, and he needed to forgive himself for what he had done to Delta, because his hate and guilt and frustration were so heavy they had broken his back, and too many years had passed, where all he could do was crawl hopelessly on his belly, fingers sliding in the dirt. It was now that he resolved to keep Meetra safe, not from Sith Lords or the Exchange or any other obvious enemy, but from himself. He was motivated not by any threat or demand, but by the Jedi he had loved, for Rhyssa Sularen and for his baby sister, Delta, and the knowledge that Meetra Surik was the only person left who could save what they had loved.

He could not be sure this was such a crucial moment for her, but as slipped his hand in hers, he was making a promise to her and to himself. "Friends," he echoed quietly, giving her hand a single, firm shake before letting go.


	50. Meetra meets Jaq

_This one's for the sweet, beautiful Miss G, because knowing that someone will still care about you no matter how broken you are is the most wonderful feeling in the world. I never have to feel embarrassed or shy about my writing with her, and that is the most liberating, encouraging thing, and I have to thank her for reminding me of it yesterday or I would not have written this. It's a very long chapter, but those of you who have been reading for a while might remember that I promised something special when we got back to present-day Telos. This is it. Unbeta'd, directly from my heart to the page. This one means a lot to me, so please review if you reach the end and feel so inclined._

* * *

**Chapter Fifty**

_**It is better to be wounded, a captive and a slave, than always to walk in armour.**_

The ramp dropped with an angry thump. So tired was Meetra, that she jumped at the sound. She rolled her eyes, admonishing herself for startling so easily. Equally exhausted, Atton did not even notice, but just tossed her a lazy glance, an invitation for her to board first. She accepted, and wandered inside the _Hawk_, Atton close behind. Once the ramp clanged shut, they both stood there in front of it, at a loss. Meetra had sent the others to prepare for the trip to Malachor, and though she knew it wasn't exactly fair, she had not allocated a task to Atton because she wanted his company. Still reeling from facing Nihilus, and a rather sobering discussion with one Admiral Onasi, she did not feel any guilt. Rather, she felt she needed this time alone with him just as dearly as she needed Mical to resupply the med-bay or Mira to replenish their supply of power packs. Atton never looked at her with the expectation the others did. He never seemed frightened, like the others did, when she was weak and fatigued and did not know what to do next. And right now, she was all of these things, and could not take the pressure of pretending that she wasn't.

Meetra had not been previously aware of Onasi's presence, but had been eager and willing to speak with him when he requested hers. It was not widely realised by her crew, for she toiled mostly in secret, but she had been carefully trying to piece together what had become of Revan since she returned to the Inner Rim. Her motivation at first had been that Revan was the only family she had left. Morbid curiosity, nosiness, concern. But now her reasons were quite different, and since she had witnessed the last of the Jedi die on Dantooine earlier in the week, her search had intensified, as she spent night after night, poring through any information she could find on the HoloNet. Her search was frenzied, feverish, desperate as she tried to find some discarded, overlooked detail that would complete the puzzle. She had supposed that it was merely an adequate distraction from the anger dwelling within her in the wake of Kae's treachery. It was not until she spoke to Onasi earlier that she came to grips with the true source of this despair. She had to kill Kae, Kreia...There was no way she could justify letting the woman live after realising the depth of her involvement with the Sith, but she knew of no way she could accomplish this without killing herself, also. It seemed generally assumed that she had a plan to counteract the effects of the bond between herself and Kae, but the truth was she did not, and she knew she was running out of time. She needed to find Revan, because she knew of no one else who could re-establish the Order, and regardless of her past misgivings with the Jedi, she could not allow them to slip through history's fingers, their duties forgotten and abandoned. But, she did not have the time to train her students adequately, and nor could she spare Kae any more time to prepare. Meetra knew from reading what recounts and reports she could find that Admiral Onasi had travelled with Revan and it was her deepest hope that he would know something she did not. The disappointment when he beat her to asking the very same question stung in her nose and eyes and terrified her in a way she could not explain. She had asked after Bastila, then, for though she had found nothing to suggest that Bastila lived, she had also found nothing to suggest otherwise. She implored him for information, but he had been reticent on that subject; thoroughly disheartened, she had left with fewer answers than she had entered, dismissed her crew and wandered back to the _Hawk_ with Atton, defeated even in light of the evening's victories.

She rubbed her face and looked to him. His hair was limp, fringe flattened by sweat and stuck fast to his forehead. There was a rash of uneven stubble across his angular jaw, and deep circles below his eyes, afforded, she knew, by months of inadequate sleep made worse by a morning earlier than he would have chosen. So enamoured was Meetra, however, that there was no imperfection or flaw that could weaken her attraction to him, and she allowed herself a moment of doe-eyed appreciation. He noticed after a second, but she did not change the nature of her gaze or make any other attempt to hide it. So hopelessly did Atton feel the same, that even the deep graze across her cheek, the gauntness of her face and the splashes of blood on her tunic seemed invisible, and so he returned the same look.

"What happened earlier?" she asked eventually.

He shrugged casually, lifting a hand to scratch the back of his head. "What do you mean?" he asked. Before she could answer, he turned, walking in the main hold on his way to the med-bay.

She looked at his retreating back and scowled at the obvious deflection, but trotted after him, undeterred. "Atton, you don't have to tell me. I just want to know that you're okay. Was it something I did?"

He glanced over his shoulder at her, rounding the corner into the tiny med-bay where Mical spent most of his time. He opened a cupboard, sifting through its contents, more than familiar with where each item called home after almost a year of cuts and bruises and injuries. "Here," he said, tossing her a small bottle so she could attend to the wound across her cheek. He halfheartedly pointed at her when he saw her frown, and shook his head. "It wasn't you."

It was a lie, perhaps. That morning, just as Meetra received news from Atris that Nihilus was planning to destroy the Station, Atton had stormed away from her and subsequently broken down in the cockpit when she attempted to comfort him. He felt embarrassed by the display, but had not been able to contain it. The culprit had been a rush of memories – of Rhyssa, of Delta, of Meetra – delivered by his admission to Bao-Dur that he was in love with the latter. The words left his mouth, and from nowhere the ground broke beneath his feet, and like a sledgehammer to his nape came the sudden realisation that the young, arrogant girl who had taunted him, gloated that she could make him beg, had done so that very morning in the galley.

Malachor V had been traumatising for all involved, and had left the survivors demoralised, angry and demanding answers as to why the Revanchist would kill their own men so willingly. It had been Revan's assertion that the Generator had been born of Surik's mind, that the responsibility for Malachor fell on her, a devious plan from the Order to punish the collaboration between the Revanchist and the Republic. He had taken their fear and so effortlessly pushed it back onto the Jedi. Revan aligned himself as a victim, their equal, and they had responded to it, for the way Meetra was cast from the Jedi when she returned in shame was not well known, and her disappearance was assumed to be caused not by exile but by her being coddled in safety by the Jedi, or meeting her fate at the hands of some unfortunate, unrelated accident. This perceived act of hate from the Jedi made them an easy target and deftly concealed Revan's greed for power; the Republic soldiers that deserted to follow Revan were not traitors, not Sith, but men made rebels by a cruel regime. Revenge consumed every last survivor, and Atton was no exception. Rhyssa screaming in his ear as the Generator crushed her last breath from her body had fuelled his hate for Surik, for the Jedi that had spawned her, that she had skulked back to, and that morning standing in the snow with Bao-Dur, he realised that if he loved Meetra Surik then it was all for nothing. He had killed his sister because of that intense, suffocating anger, but so easily had it faded away to nothing, to the point where he could cast aside his dignity and plead for his love to be returned.

No justification had ever felt sufficient for what he'd done to Delta, but he understood then that he had no argument or excuse left. That just as Kreia had once told him, he had simply murdered her. There was no purpose, no goal...He had killed her in cold blood, blood that would forever stain his hands and his heart. It was confusion that overtook him in the cockpit, and though he felt humiliated, and though he did not want to be comforted, Meetra's gentle touch, on his knees, his face pressed to her belly, had soothed him more than he thought possible. He did not know if loving her was wrong, but he knew that he could not stop, and did not want to any longer. The panic faded, and as the day wore on, though it was a day even more hectic, dangerous and violent than their usual, he felt his equilibrium return.

There was a moment when he had been crouched behind a low planter with Mira, responsible for laying covering fire as Meetra ran ahead, and he watched her fight for the first time in a long time. It was there her grace and strength lay, in the way she wielded her weapon, in her awareness and her swift, deft moves. He saw the woman who had crumpled on the floor of the shower, weeping for children that would never be, stand and declare, not with words but with actions, that she was the victim of none, and whatever fear and guilt she carried could not weaken her. It occurred to him again, then, as it had many times since the very first time, standing in the snow as he shook her hand, that loving Meetra was what would deliver him from his sins, that it was her who could cleanse and sew shut the wounds he had inflicted, so that they could heal and scar instead of fester. And so it was, the knot that had formed in his chest that morning untangled on its own, and to speak of it seemed pointless. So, to tell Meetra that it was not about her was a lie, but not really, and one that he did not feel bad for telling.

He watched her duck and bob her head, as she viewed her wounded face in the mirror. It was just a scratch – not nearly as bad as the purple mark that had encircled her eye that morning or the fracture in her wrist that he had healed – but it had bled more than it should have, and left one side of her face quite a mess. She set down the bottle, and began to poke about amongst the glass jars and canisters along the steel counter-top for something to clean away the dried, cracked blood.

"But you're okay?" she asked, after a moment, a tender note in her voice.

"I'm fine," he confirmed, as sincerely as he knew how.

A comfortable hush settled in the room, as Meetra began to attend to her face and Atton stood at the sink, washing from his hands the grit and muck that had gathered beneath his nails across the day. He listened to the plinks of glass on metal behind him, while he dried his hands on the soft towel hanging above the basin, then sat on the counter and let his gaze linger on her figure, weariness forming a gritty ache in his eyes.

"So, what did that guy have to say?" he drawled when he grew tired of the silence.

Meetra returned to the bottle Atton had passed her, and shook it, before removing the cap and soaking a large wad of cotton with it. "What guy?"

"The one Grenn sent you to. The Admiral," said Atton, jutting his chin.

"Oh," replied Meetra. She gave a small hiss, baring her teeth as she dabbed the liquid on her cheek. "Just to say thank you. He's Telosian, so I suppose it was a bit...personal for him."

Atton gave a quiet nod of acknowledgement. "Anything interesting happen over on the Ravager?"

"Not really. I – Nihilus." She stopped and took a breath. "He spoke to me. He wasn't speaking Basic, something else. But I heard him in my mind. I knew him." She looked at Atton with a troubled expression on her face. "He was one of the Revanchist. I thought that - I think that...Maybe." She left her mouth agape, and it became clear that she could not pass the words, and she simply looked away.

"What?"

She shook her head. "It's nothing." She made eye contact with Atton via her reflection and raised an eyebrow. "Sorry, my head's just everywhere. Still sort of reeling from Kae. I don't know how I could have been so stupid. I don't know why I didn't see it earlier."

"Oh, yeah. I don't know," gave Atton, feeling some latent guilt squirming in his chest over having lied to her that morning.

"Regardless, we need to get back to the Academy, help Briana, set her up to deal with Atris while we're gone, then straight to Malachor. It can't wait," said Meetra, forcing herself to sound determined to shake away the despair she felt.

"Meetra," began Atton, looking down at his lap and waiting for her gentle hum before continuing. "This morning, when you were fighting Atris...I've never seen you like that."

"Yeah, well." She tossed the wad in the bin across the room, a tiny flick of her finger recovering a bad throw. She looked at him inquisitively, because she did not know what point he was trying to make, or if he even had one.

"Was it because of Kavar?" he ventured.

Meetra understood then that he was referring to the rabid rage that had overtaken her, how she had come close to murdering Atris. She had thought that Atton wasn't bothered by it, and was a touch startled by his concern. She shook her head. "It was because Atris lied to me about Kae. She knew the whole time. Don't get me wrong," she said, holding up a hand. "I've hated Atris for a long time, but I thought I could trust her. I never thought she would keep something like that from me."

"What does it matter, though? You didn't like Kae, anyway."

"Kreia. I didn't like Kreia. I loved Kae," asserted Meetra, rather forcefully. She sighed when she saw the confusion on his face. "I don't have a mother, Atton. I don't have any family, but I had Revan, and Kae. I was told she died at Malachor, that she was killed by the Generator. I made that call, Atton. I didn't know she wasn't clear, but it's chewed me up for years. I've killed a lot of people, but none I cared about like that. I can't – I can't explain what that felt like. You can't know," she finished, finding an uncomfortable huskiness in her voice and dryness in her throat that she did not want there.

Despite her obvious distress, Atton almost wanted to laugh at the coincidence. He wondered maybe if Meetra could possibly understand, then realised that his crimes had been intentional and hers – whether real or perceived – were accidental. So he just looked at his hands, and stayed silent while Meetra gathered herself.

"She was in my head, constantly. This last year, I can't count the number of times she's sifted around through my memories and thoughts and intruded where I didn't want her. But the intrusion's not the point – it's that...She must have seen how badly I felt. I've thought about it so many times. It's kept me awake. I've felt ill with guilt. And she must have known what it would have meant to me to know that she was okay, but she just let me torture myself with it. I'm angry, and maybe I don't deserve to be, but I am. I thought that Kae cared about me. I feel...I feel betrayed," she finished, with a shrug that was almost apologetic.

Atton fidgeted, and a revelation that felt revolting rolled through him. "I didn't know."

"You weren't supposed to. I never mentioned it." She shrugged again, and set about returning things as they had been when they entered the room, delicate fingers turning lids to jars and bottles to cupboards.

For a moment, breathing felt difficult for Atton. He thought of how familiar it was, the wretched fury he'd seen in her eyes when he'd called her name that morning as she loomed over Atris, ready to remove the woman's head from her body. Even though he had suppressed his desire to exact revenge against Meetra, he had seemingly done so anyway. He had not killed her as intended, but by keeping such a vital piece of information from her, he had helped to break and bestialise her the same way he had once been, and that seemed somehow worse. It seemed of little import that she had not gone through with it, for the damage had been rendered all the same, and he could see it now, in her eyes, he could hear it in the crack in her voice. And because he loved her, he could stay silent no longer. "Meetra."

"Yeah?"

"I knew about Kae."

She felt a coldness travel down her back, and her shoulders stiffened. "What?"

Immediately, Atton felt a mote of regret, worried that perhaps he was making things worse, but he pressed on. "I recognised her the moment we saw her on Peragus. I reported to her, during the Civil War. At first, I thought maybe you knew but then – I don't know. I couldn't tell you this morning."

Meetra looked at him, her arms slack, her face awash with confusion-tinged irritation. "Why didn't you mention it sooner? You've complained about her non-stop, you never thought to mention that she's...She's Sith? A Darth? You didn't think I should have known that?" she demanded, and though she urgently wanted to stay calm, she couldn't stop the anger creeping into her voice.

"You don't understand," argued Atton. He tapped his palm against his knees, anxiety growing in his chest. "She knew about the things I'd done, during the war. I didn't want you to know, Meetra. She said if I kept her secret, she'd keep mine. I didn't know what to do."

"But you told me, you told me on Nar Shaddaa," said Meetra, sinking against the counter as the colour drained from her face.

"I didn't tell you everything," he murmured, barely able to look at her.

Meetra scoffed. "What else could there be?"

As he tried to form the words, he felt instead the familiar desire to run crawl around inside him. His mind began to assess immediately; how many credits he had, where no one would think to look for him, how he could get off Citadel Station, how long it would before Meetra was sufficiently distracted so he could sneak out, never to be seen again. He did not want to leave, but felt backed into a corner. Meetra did not understand, did not want to understand, hated him, he could not stay. And so it was, that he was surprised when she crossed the room, and dipped her head so that she could meet his downcast eyes.

"Alright. Alright. Atton, look at me," she demanded. She let her belly rest against his knees, and her hands sit flat on his lap. "If you don't want to tell me, then I don't want to know. I don't care if you lied. I care that you didn't trust me, but I'm not going to – I'm not going to hold it against you. But I need you to know that you can. There isn't anything you can do or you've done that would make me turn on you. "

Atton's face softened with hesitant curiosity, and though he was paranoid that she was attempting only to mollify him, her delivery suggested veracity.

As though she suddenly became aware of the intimate way she was touching him, she took a small step back, folding her arms. "I know things are muddy...It's muddy because...I have feelings for you, and I shouldn't," she admitted quietly, struggling to swallow as she finished her sentence. "But I am your Master. You can trust me even when you can't trust anyone else, even when you can't trust yourself. I'm not made of glass. I can take anything you throw at me."

He slipped off the counter-top, adopting a stoic frown. "I don't deserve that."

"I think you do," she insisted. She moved as though about to touch him once more, but lost her nerve and snapped her fingers closed, looking down. This seemed intolerable to Atton, so he caught one of her fists before she lowered it and they stared at one another pointedly, unsure of what to do next. After a moment, he wedged his fingers between hers to make her open her hand, and casually pulled her closer.

"I'm sorry. I am – I'm not just saying that."

Meetra spared a small smile. "I know."

Gingerly, Atton touched her jaw and there was a pregnant pause, and knowing what was coming next, Meetra shied from his touch.

"This isn't -"

"I can't wait any longer, Meetra. I can't," he whispered, as austere as he had ever been. "I want this, and I want you."

She took several deep but rushed breaths, waging an internal war. She knew that she would have only a week, or maybe two if the route was badly calculated, before she faced Kae, and then it was over. She loved Atton, and she wanted so badly to be loved by him, though she was sure his words were only the work of the insidious bonds she formed with all she came across. It seemed such a cruel and pathetic life she had led, ushered from one place to another, used and using, spreading little more than misery with every step. Not even once, after everything, had she ever fallen asleep in the arms of someone that loved her. Not once had anyone fought to stay with her, not once had she left a room in distress and had anyone that would follow her. People, like Revan and Kae, she was beginning to understand, had only ever loved her power, never her. But here was Atton, saying what she wanted to hear, and though it made a horrid, gelid guilt run through her veins, though she hoped against hope that he would be able to forgive her when she died and he realised what she had done to him, she could not stop her reply. "I do, too."

"Good," said Atton, nodding. He placed his hands on her hips and stooped to deliver a pragmatic kiss. "So, this is what's going to happen," he continued, moving a hand to cup her jaw and delivering another brief kiss, free of fanfare or embellishment. "You're going to let me do this, now, and later, and tomorrow and next week and every week after that, and I'm going to let you do the same." The second hand joined the first, and he held her face still, while he delivered a third kiss, slower this time, and harder when she pushed a hand between the buttons of his shirt. He broke free, pushing her hair back. "Okay?"

Meetra's head felt rather empty, then, and she could only nod pathetically. "Okay."

"Okay. C'mere." He moved to kiss her neck, not bothered by the brackish tang left behind by dried sweat, and pushed his pelvis against hers, turning her around and pressing her backside against the counter to afford more pressure.

She gave a gentle whimper as he found a sensitive spot below her jaw, and for a moment was made lost by the intensity of her arousal. Even as her hands fumbled at his shirt, desperate to feel the gentle curve of muscle across his belly, she knew that this was wrong. It took a strength she didn't know she had, but she pressed her palms flat, pushing him away.

"Don't," he growled, leaning back to look at her.

She met his eyes and saw in them a ferocity that shocked her. It was not angry or threatening, but something else entirely. Something familiar, that made her throat tight, her mouth dry, a hook of white hot heat tug just below her navel. It was the look that she had envisioned when she held the orange crystal gifted to her by Revan; it was love, intense and real and proud and all for her. She could not ascertain that it was genuine, but she knew none had ever looked at her like that before. Its effect on her was powerful, and inside her she felt ignite anew the devotion to Atton the original vision had sparked. She nodded obediently, holding out metaphorical hands to receive the shackle that was that look, that love, that force, and Atton kissed her again, arms pulled around her back, feet backing towards the door, leading her from the room. Moving with a fluid unity, she pushed and tugged at his jacket and he rolled his shoulders, moving his hands only briefly, only one at a time, to let it fall away and drop to the floor. He felt her uneasy steps, taken on the tips of her toes, and stooped to sweep an arm below her rear and lift her, lissome legs squeezing around his hips and slender arms gracing his neck, fingers grazing his cheeks, and only the sound of desperate gasps pulled along the small gap between their faces.

He carried her down the hall, and though the journey wasn't elegant, neither noticed. One arm wrapped around his shoulder, she pulled at the obi tucked around her waist, and it fluttered to the floor, Atton's boot making a filthy foot print on the cream-coloured cloth as they went. They reached the door and he set her down, but no distance between them formed and she groped behind her, trying to find the release for the door. Barely had they slipped inside the door, before he pulled her tunic up and over her head. She kicked off a boot with some difficulty, jamming her toes down the neck of the second to dislodge it. Atton used his hands to deal with his, but did not break their kiss, choosing only to lean awkwardly, ignoring the unfortunate clash of their teeth as he tugged the boot over his heel. In a concentrated effort, they peeled away her leggings, then one hand at his nape, and the other clenched around his belt buckle, she pulled him backwards until her calves hit the edge of the bed and she dropped, Atton brought down on top of her. Any attempts to take their time were lost, as she whispered fervent demands in his ear, and after three hands pawed desperately at his belt and zipper, he obliged her broken pleas, her toes tending to the trousers still slung loose around his waist.

Though it was nothing visual, Atton felt the marked difference between this and their first encounter. There had been a distinct detachment the last time, and he had allowed his mind to wander from her every now and then and was sure she had done the same. It had been an outlet more than anything, an exchange of burdens, but this seemed to concern only the two of them. The galaxy beyond that room ceased to exist and their union had an intensity that he might have found uncomfortable with another woman. He did not want to break her gaze, and wasn't sure he could have if he tried. She was not still, not content to bask, but moved to the rhythm that he set and dragged her nails across his back. It was not long before it became apparent that he couldn't last and distracted, his movement and kiss grew sloppy. His bottom teeth dug into her chin and he couldn't help the pained groan that left his mouth, as his toes pushed and slid against the mattress as he tried to find a way closer to her core. Her fingers were tangled in his hair, clenched and pulling, her lips squashed against the prickly skin below his nose. She was tight below him, every muscle tense, her ankles locked, her mouth held open by glorious agony. His breath was fast and full, though he felt like he was suffocating and the only respite seemed to be to grip her shoulders painfully hard until he could take his own weight no longer and collapsed against her, every muscle aching and tingling and screaming at him. He felt his own chest rise and fall, lifted and dropped by hers, and as soon as she managed to pull her hand free of his sweaty hair, he felt both her palms clap his cheeks and then he was kissing her again. A deep kiss, the deepest he'd ever known, that was messy and desperate and more than the sum of its parts.

His body was spent but not nearly so much as his mind, and he could not find the cognitive power to do anything besides drag his lips against hers in a way that felt primal and instinctive. It had been too fast and frantic and though he'd tried, he hadn't been able to last any longer, and in doing so had broken one of the few rules he lived by. It was not acceptable, not good enough, so gathering what he could of his shattered mind, he traced a hand down the muscular dip that ran the length of her torso, and replaced himself with circinate fingers and the heel of his palm. He spared her no gentility, and the rough motion made her yelp and push against him before both found a new rhythm. Overwhelmed, the pink bloom across her cheeks deepened, and each whimper and whine became more guttural. She said his name – she said Atton – a strangled sound that barely made it past her raspy breaths. But he did not want to hear it, for it was not his name, and months of lies wore heavy on him. This was as close as he had ever been to her, and maybe to anyone, and right then, he needed her to know.

He pressed the bridge of his nose against her hot cheek, and he asked her to call him Jaq. He could tell from the delay in her reply that sparing any concentration enquiring why would break the delicate heat building in her abdomen, so she simply gave a lopsided nod and kissed him again. Despite his request, she felt wrong saying a name she did not know, and when she broke away to say it, it was awkward, muffled, quiet, spoken into his lips. But he said her name in return, and there was such humbled gratitude in his voice that any discomfort she felt fell away, and she said it again, and again, until she that delicate heat grew brutal and consuming and she could speak no longer. He was patient, working diligently even as she bit hard into his shoulder, attempting to silence her scream and still the spasm in her legs, the ripple across her belly. A still moment passed, quiet but for their breath – his laboured and hers even more so. He moved to his back, staring up at the ceiling and finding relief in the smooth, cool sheet beneath him for just a moment, before gathering her small figure to his chest, where she settled her jaw against his clavicle and both let their hearts slow and wasted bodies rest, mollified by the tranquillity. He yawned, and then again much deeper in a way that made his shoulders tense and shake. The day had dragged forever and he did not have the energy to stay awake much longer. The sweat on his body cooled, making the chill in the air more apparent than it had been when they entered. There was a grittiness in his eyes, and sleep became more tempting than he could resist. He knew that he would not necessarily be welcome to partake in it here, though, lest suspicion should be aroused.

So, feeling rather like he was a man much younger, his lip twitched in discomfort before he pressed his mouth against her hair and murmured, "Do you want me to go?"

"No," came her reply, as simple and solemn as he could have wanted.

He nodded, relieved partly that he did not have to leave her, but even more so that he did not have to move, for so fatigued did Atton feel suddenly that to redress and make his way back to the cockpit seemed nigh an impossibility. "Good."

He felt her smile against his chest, then she hooked a leg over his front, weaving her foot between his knees, and tightening her grip around his ribcage. He cast a glance and saw that her rear skirted the edge of the bed, while his shoulder touched the wall. The bed was, to say the least, narrow and cramped. Atton could plainly see that there was barely room for Meetra let alone both of them; the product of its location, he supposed, for though this room was intended for the Captain, the ship was still a compact freighter, and not necessarily suited for long-term living. It did not matter, though, for while it was a potential source of irritation, so new and unfamiliar was this union that to both the closeness seemed exhilarating, and any gap between them seemed intolerable, so all he could do was move and fidget until he found more ways to feel her skin on his. Finding no success with a half-hearted grasp of her toes, with a small flick of her wrist and some help from the Force, Meetra dragged the lost covers up and over them from where they had been kicked and discarded, half bunched at the end of the bed, half spread across the floor. Wrapping her fist in sheet, she draped them over Atton's shoulders, keeping her hand tucked next to his neck. So comfortably swaddled was Atton, by the mingled scent of sex and Meetra, the crisp fabric and smooth warm skin, that he had little choice but to submit then, letting his eyelids fall closed, and the warm, tingly black of sleep wrap itself around his head. So quickly did he begin to drift away, that he did not understand her question straight away.

"Mmm?" he mumbled, giving her hair an absent-minded stroke to compensate for his lack of attention.

"Why did you want me to call you Jaq?" she repeated.

Frustration coiled itself around his throat and sliced through the peace he felt. He knew that there was no short answer to this. There were answers shorter than others, easily abridged by further lies, but even those were not sufficiently brief and painless. He opened and closed his mouth, once, and then twice more, before turning to her with heavy eyes. "It's my name."

She sat up and searched him, eyes saccading hither and tither across his face. It was the same look she had cast upon him when he had kissed her on Nar Shaddaa, and he could tell immediately that she wanted to poke the fingers of her Force inside his cranium to determine the truth. She did not this time, though, and he had to wonder if it was because she had better control of herself or of the Force.

"That's it?"

"That's it."

She rested her head again, and he hoped that she was satisfied by that answer, but there was something slightly less affectionate about the way she rearranged herself, and though he resolved to ignore it, eventually he found himself resuming the conversation.

"Atton's a reminder. The word – it's a reminder, of the things that I've done. I don't like hearing it. I just wanted to hear you say my name," he murmured, embarrassed by his pathetic attempt at honesty. His ears flushed with warmth, and he had to roll his eyes.

It was a fractured explanation at best, but it was too difficult to say that this name that he had taken was a small piece of a sentence. That people called him Atton, and his baby sister, his baby sister that he had murdered, would finish for them, '_would be so ashamed of you._' The name was bondage; it was punishment. It hanged, drew and quartered him every time he heard it, and what he yearned was for someone that he loved, that he hoped loved him, to address him as who he was underneath it all, instead of the sum of his failures. He did not know how to convey to Meetra the way 'Atton' isolated and hurt him, and he hoped that she would not press the issue because so raw and tender were his feelings on the matter that he wasn't sure he could prevent it from dissolving into an argument.

"Okay," she said, brushing the underside of her hand over his flank, then reaching up to idly rearrange his messy hair. She looked at him, and seeing his wary expression, she only smiled. "You've never once called me the Exile," she said. "I think I understand, because it means a lot to me, that you always use my name, and not...A title that is used to segregate me."

His brow softened, and he looked her in the eye. He watched her slow blinks and the dabs of light that clung to the tips of her lashes, and saw her pupils grow larger and darker as she watched him, too. She did not know, not truly, but her tentative offering of empathy felt good enough. He loved her, and each passing day she found a way to strengthen it and renew his trust in it. Where once he had felt an overwhelming desire to keep from her the truth – about Kae, about Delta, about Jaq – lest she reject him, he found himself yearning to tell her every last sordid detail, because the prospect that someone, anyone, but her especially, could care for him regardless was so tempting and seemed, in his mind, the balm for his burns he had sought for years. But he was not ready; nor was he to admit to her the breadth of his feelings for her. The words lingered in his mouth, waiting to be spoken, but he swallowed them and only pulled her closer again, pressing his face to hers. And that she understood, for she felt the same, but was likewise unprepared.

"Jaq," she whispered.

"Meetra," he returned.

There was no question, no inquiry, and those two words made complete sentences on their own, saying what could not be said, as loudly as was possible. They stayed there, a confusion of limbs, thin sheets wrapped around legs and dark hair sprawled over the single pillow, and though Meetra stopped to mentally scan to ensure it was only the arrival of their companions and not any nefarious intrusion, neither spared another thought at the familiar sound of the _Ebon Hawk's _ramp dropping. It neither occurred to them nor mattered, then, about Atton's jacket abandoned on the med-bay floor, or Meetra's obi in the hallway to her room. They cared not that the cockpit stood empty, and that conclusions would be drawn immediately. It was late, and cool, and dark, and they were comfortable, and, it seemed, exactly where they were both meant to be. Whatever had happened felt right, enough, that neither saw any need to justify or explain it. Instead they just gave in to the fatigue that niggled in their muscles and tugged at their eyelids, both content, both peaceful, both safe at last.


End file.
